Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters are over 18 years of age.

Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh: A mature average looking dusky complexion Bengali woman with a 38-34-42 figure, Chaitali is a complex character torn between her desperate need for sexual fulfillment and the societal norms that forbid her desires. She has just joined work at Vatika Real Estate in Gurgaon, trying to balance her work and personal life 

 

The new receptionist of Vatika gets befriended by a young suave property dealer.

***

Chaitali Ghosh shifted her weight, the unfamiliar stiffness of her blouse scratching against the swell of her big breasts as she adjusted the laminated ID hanging around her neck. Her dusky skin felt clammy under the harsh fluorescent lights. Across the polished granite counter, Armaan Singh leaned forward, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair. A faint whiff of expensive aftershave cut through the antiseptic air. "So, Chaitali di," he began, his Hindi smooth, eyes crinkling with practiced charm, "first day jitters? Gurgaon ka thand bhi kuch alag hi lagta hai na? Feels different, this cold?" His gaze lingered, not on her face, but on the way her chubby waist curved sharply into the pronounced flare of her generous hips beneath the sensible saree.

 

Chaitali chuckled, a warm, throaty sound that eased the tension knotting her shoulders. She instinctively smoothed her saree pleats over her rounded belly. "Arre baba, jitters toh nahi, bas... adjustment," she replied in easy Hinglish, her Bengali accent softening the consonants. "Aur thand? Main toh Kolkata ki hoon, wahan ki humidity ke saamne toh yeh AC wala thand bhi achha lagta hai!" She felt a flush creep up her neck, warmth spreading beneath her blouse – partly from the effort of navigating the new environment, partly from the unexpected, friendly attention of the handsome man.

 

Armaan’s smile widened, revealing perfect teeth. He rested his elbows casually on the counter, leaning closer. "Kolkata! Wah! City of Joy... aur culture." His eyes, sharp and assessing despite the charm, flickered over her ID badge. "Ghosh... Bengali toh lagti thi aap. Husband bhi Bengali hain?" The question was casual, friendly, yet it carried an underlying curiosity that prickled against Chaitali’s skin. She felt the cool metal of her mangalsutra chain press against her collarbone.

 

Chaitali chuckled again, the sound warm but slightly breathless. Her fingers instinctively brushed the vermilion sindoor in her parting – a vibrant streak against her dark hair. "Haan ji, Bengali hi hai. Shubham Ghosh. Finance mein hai... Delhi mein." She shifted her weight, the starched fabric of her saree blouse tightening across her full bosom. A familiar pang of loneliness echoed beneath her ribs. "Bas... hum dono kaam mein busy rehte hain." The admission slipped out, tinged with resignation.

 

Armaan nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the faint lines of fatigue around her eyes. "Delhi mein? Tough hai." His voice softened, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "Gurgaon mein rehti hain aap? Family ke saath?" He leaned further over the counter, the scent of his aftershave mingling with the lemon polish. His eyes held hers, disarmingly attentive.

 

"Bas... flat le liya hai Sector 56 mein," she admitted, the Bengali cadence bleeding into her Hindi. "Ek bedroom, compact-saapact... but peaceful." She hesitated, her fingers twisting the saree's pallu. "Shubham... woh mostly Delhi mein rehta hai client meetings ke liye." The admission hung heavy, exposing the hollow ache beneath her ribs. Her breasts felt heavy against the blouse's constriction, a physical echo of the loneliness.

 

Armaan’s gaze sharpened, tracking the unconscious flutter of her fingers near her sindoor. "Aap akeli?" His voice dropped to a murmur, thick with feigned concern. "Gurgaon mein... risky hai na?" He leaned impossibly closer, the citrus bite of his aftershave overwhelming the sterile lobby air. His knuckles brushed the cool granite countertop, inches from her own damp palm. "Family... parents? Ya koi help?"

 

The question scrap ed against her isolation like sandpaper. "Parents Kolkata mein hain," she murmured, the Bengali softening her words into a sigh. Her blouse clung, suddenly suffocating, to the sweat-slicked valley between her breasts. "Help? Kaun deta hai help yahan?" A bitter laugh escaped her, sharp and unexpected. "Sab apne-apne kaam mein busy."

 

Armaan’s smile deepened, predatory beneath the charm. "Achha?" He leaned against the cold marble reception desk, the fluorescent light catching the sharp angles of his jaw. "Toh aap manage kaise karti hain? Cooking, cleaning... sab akeli?"

 

"Bas... kar leti hoon," she murmured, her Bengali accent softening the Hindi. "Morning mein breakfast, fir office...shaam ko roti-banane ka time hi nahi milta." The admission left her feeling exposed, the hollow ache in her stomach sharpening. She smelled the faint musk of his sweat mingling with his aftershave.

 

"Roti-banane ka bhi time nahi?" Armaan tutted softly, his gaze drifting from the sweat beading at her hairline down to the slight swell of her belly pressing against the saree's waistband. "Aapko toh healthy diet lena chahiye, Chaitali di. Aapke figure ke liye..." His voice trailed off, thick with implication. "Mere paas ek achha caterer ka number hai. Home delivery."

 

Chaitali felt the flush deepen, spreading like warm ink beneath her dusky skin. Her breasts felt heavy, sensitive against the stiff cotton of her blouse as she shifted, the edge of the counter digging into her soft hip. "Arre, kya zaroorat?" she managed, her Hinglish faltering slightly. "Bas... kabhi-kabhi Maggi bana leti hoon."

 

Armaan's chuckle was low, intimate, as if sharing a secret. His knuckle grazed the cool granite again, closer this time to her damp palm resting near the visitor logbook. "Maggi? Chaitali di, aap jaise lady ko Maggi?" He shook his head, his gaze lingering on the slight tremor in her fingers. "Nahin. Proper food chahiye. Protein. Energy."

 

He straightened abruptly, pulling his wallet from his tailored trouser pocket. The movement was fluid, practiced. He extracted a crisp, white business card, holding it between his index and middle finger. "Yeh lo," he said, placing it deliberately on the counter, just beyond her reach. "My personal number." His eyes locked onto hers, the practiced charm momentarily stripped away, revealing something sharper, hungrier beneath. "Call me. Anytime. Dinner... my treat. A proper meal. No Maggi." The invitation hung in the air, heavy and open-ended, devoid of a specific day or time, leaving the ball entirely in her court. "Think about it. Gurgaon doesn’t have to be so lonely."

 

Without waiting for a response, Armaan flashed a final, knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He turned on his polished leather loafers, the sharp click echoing in the suddenly silent lobby. He walked away, not towards the elevators leading to the brokerage offices, but straight out the revolving glass doors into the hazy Gurgaon afternoon, leaving Chaitali alone with the scent of his lingering aftershave and the stark white card lying like a challenge on the cool granite.

 

Chaitali stared at the card. The raised black letters spelled "Armaan Singh, Property Consultant", followed by a mobile number. Her own damp palm print smudged the counter near it.

 

The sharp taste of whiskey burned Armaan's throat as he leaned back in the faux-leather booth at the Sector 29 pub, the bass thumping through his spine. Rajeev, his tie loosened and cheeks flushed, slammed his glass down. "Arre yaar, kal woh South Ex ki model mili thi na? Saali, figure toh bomb tha, lekin attitude dekh kar mood off ho gaya!" He mimed a pout, drawing snickers from Vikram beside him.

 

Vikram swirled his beer, a sly grin spreading. "Figure? Bhai, figure toh theek hai, par asli maza toh woh milfs mein hai. Experience, yaar. Unko pata hota hai ki chahiye kya... aur kaise dena hai." He winked, nudging Armaan hard. "Tera kya scene hai, Armaan? Tune Vatika mein koi naya 'asset' dekha hai na?

 

Armaan took a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling like a lazy serpent in the neon gloom. His knuckles whitened around the glass. "Haan, ek Bangalan mili hai reception pe. Ghosh... Chaitali Ghosh." He paused, letting the name hang thick with implication. "Dekhne mein seedhi-saadhi, ghar ki murgi... lehin body..." He whistled low, the sound vulgar against the thumping music. "Fulltu figure. Gaand toh dekhi hai? Pura jalebi ki tarah feli hui... aur chhaati? Saala, blouse ke buttons se fatne wali hai. Pati Delhi mein rehta hai... poora akela package, fresh delivery."

 

Rajeev leaned in, eyes glinting with cheap whiskey and lechery. "Akeli? Saala, lucky bastard Seedhi-saadhi types ko toh chakna hi alag hota hai. Khol ke dekha hai tune? Kitna deti hai?" He made an obscene thrusting motion with his hips, drawing a coarse laugh from Vikram.

 

Armaan smirked, swirling his drink. "Nahin, abhi tak bas setting kar raha hoon. Saali ko ek card diya, personal number. Pati door, ghar mein roti bhi nahi ban pati... bhukhi padi hai. Bas thoda aur pressure, aur yeh gori si kali, kali nahi... kaali si gori... khud hi meri gaadi mein chadh jayegi." He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, the ember dying like a snuffed hope. "Gaand itni moti hai ki belt se pakad ke chodne mein maza aayega. Khheench ke... ekdum tight."

 

Vikram slammed his beer down, foam sloshing. "Arre yaar, photo bhej na! WhatsApp pe! Hum bhi dekhein teri 'fresh delivery'." His eyes glazed over, imagining the curve of unseen hips. "Dusky maal hai na? Woh toh aur bhi garm hoti hain... chikni chamdi, daba ke chodne pe laal ho jati hai saali ki body."

 

Armaan grinned, tapping his phone screen. "Photo nahi hai, par kal subah 9 baje aa jao Vatika ke parking mein. Woh time pe woh lobby ki window ke paas khadi hoti hai, chai peeti hai. Puri dikhegi"

 

Rajeev leaned closer, breath sour with whiskey. "Window ke paas? Saali exhibitionist lagti hai! Gaand dekhne ka plan bana rahi hogi." He made a crude squeezing gesture. "Teri Bangalan ki moti gaand ko belt se mark karne ka plan hai kya? Ekdum tight bandh ke... taaki cheekhegi saali?"

 

Vikram slammed his glass down, foam splashing. "Photo bhejna yaar, nahi toh kal subah hum dono parking mein honge. Dekhenge teri 'fresh delivery' ka package."

 

Armaan grinned, picturing Chaitali's unconscious morning ritual. "Haan, aa jao. Saali ko dekh lena. Blouse tight hota hai uske mote chuche pe... nipple outline tak dikhta hai jab AC ki thand lagti hai. Aur pet... soft hai, jhulta hai jab woh haath utha ke apne baal sambhalti hai."

 

Vikram licked his lips, tracing a wet circle on the beer-stained table. "Chuche toh maine suna, moti gaand wali auraton ke chote hote hain? Tera wala maal toh exception hai yaar!" He snorted. "Gaand bhi bhari, chuche bhi bhari... saali ne pati ko chhod ke khaana shuru kar diya kya?" The men erupted in harsh laughter, heads thrown back.

 

"Nahi re, natural hai. Saali ka jism hi aisa hai – seedhi-saadhi dikhegi, lekin andar se full tandoori chicken, soft-spicy." Armaan leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. "Kal subah dekho, jab woh window ke paas khadi hogi. Saree ka pallu thoda sarakta hai... pet ka fold dikhta hai, ekdum malai jaisa. Aur chutney? Woh chhaati... blouse ke niche se uble hue chane jaisi fulti hai. Ek haath se chuche daboch ke, dusre se gaand pakad ke... chodne mein toh maza hi aa jayega."

 

The next morning, Rajeev and Vikram lurked behind a dusty SUV in Vatika’s parking lot, eyes glued to the lobby’s tinted glass. At precisely 9:03 AM, Chaitali appeared, steaming clay cup in hand. She leaned against the window frame, the morning sun catching the sweat beading at her temples. Just as Armaan promised, her pale yellow saree clung where her soft waist curved into the heavy swell of her hips. The thin blouse fabric strained across her full bust, the outline of her bra clear against the light. Vikram elbowed Rajeev, whispering hoarsely, "Saala Armaan sahi bola! Gaand toh bilkul jalebi ki tarah hai... chaudi, bhari hui. Aur dekh chuche... blouse ke buttons ko todne ka mann kar raha hai!"

 

Inside, Chaitali sipped her chai, unaware. The cool glass against her palm contrasted with the flush spreading down her neck. She shifted, the saree’s pleats digging into the soft flesh of her belly. A dull ache pulsed low in her back—the familiar protest of standing too long in cheap heels. Her breasts felt heavy, tender, the lace of her bra chafing where sweat gathered beneath the weight. She lifted a hand to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, the movement causing her blouse to gape slightly. Rajeev groaned, "Arre yaar, nipple ka outline! Ekdum clear! Saali exhibitionist hai... pata hai hum dekh rahe hain?" He mimed squeezing, fingers twitching. "Gaand pakad ke isko chodna hai... belt se maar maar ke laal karna hai."

 

Vikram’s phone buzzed. Armaan’s message flashed: "Kaisi lagi? Fresh maal hai na?" Vikram typed back, fingers clumsy with lust: "Bhai, gaand toh dekh. Puri fuli hui... aur chuche? Button fat jayega blouse ka.  Ek haath mein chuchiyan, ek mein gaand... chodne mein cheekh degi kya?" Rajeev snatched the phone, adding: "Pet bhi dikh raha hai... malai jaisa fold. Saali ko patak ke chod... pura jism hilana chahiye." They watched, transfixed, as Chaitali turned, the heavy curve of her hip straining the saree’s thin fabric. Vikram whispered, voice thick, "Sali ki kamar pakad ke peeche se ghus ja... itni moti gaand hai ki lund ko daboch legi. Cheekhegi... 'Armaan! Armaan!'"

 

 

Outside, Vikram’s breath hitched as Chaitali bent slightly to place her empty cup on a low table. The pale yellow saree tightened across the immense curve of her backside, the fabric straining over each globe. "Saala, dekh!" he hissed, nudging Rajeev. "Gaand utni moti hai ki pallu uske beech mein ghiss gaya hai... ekdum clevage! Chhed dikh raha hai?" He mimed grabbing handfuls of flesh, fingers digging into the air. "Aise hi bend karegi toh belt se maar maar ke laal karna padega... cheekh sunne ka mann kar raha hai." His own crotch felt tight, uncomfortably constrained.

 

Rajeev’s eyes were glued to the window, a thin line of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. "Chhed? Chhed nahi, bhai... pura valley ban gaya hai! Gaand ke do hisse alag-alag dikh rahe hain... jalebi ki tarah layered." He shifted, adjusting himself. "Blouse ke peeche se bra strap slip ho gaya hai... kandha dikh raha hai. Saali ko patak ke chod... pura jism hilna chahiye jab lund andar jaega." He imagined the slap of flesh, the way her heavy breasts would sway violently with each thrust. "Pet ka fold bhi... malai jaisa. Mootne ke baad towel se pochhti hogi na? Uss hisse ko kaat ke kha jaun."

 

Inside, Chaitali straightened, a sharp twinge shooting through her lower back. The persistent ache had deepened overnight, settling like a dull weight above her hips. She pressed a palm against the small of her back, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her waistband, seeking relief. The cool air from the vent above hit the sweat-dampened skin beneath her blouse, raising goosebumps that made her nipples tighten painfully against the lace of her bra. She felt exposed, raw, as if the fluorescent lights were peeling layers off her. Unconsciously, she tugged her pallu higher, the silk scbanging against the sensitive skin of her neck. The loneliness felt heavier today, a physical pressure against her ribs. Her breasts ached with a deep, unfamiliar throb – not just the usual heaviness, but a needy, hollow sensation that made her shift her weight again, the seam of her petticoat digging into the crease where thigh met the full swell of her buttock. She glanced towards the revolving doors, half-expecting, half-dreading a flash of white shirt.

 

Outside, Vikram wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the image of Chaitali’s saree cleaving into her immense backside burned onto his retinas. "Chal, yaar," he grunted, nudging Rajeev, his voice thick. "Dekh liya maal. Ab office ka kaam hai." They slunk away from the SUV, the gravel crunching under their cheap loafers. Once inside Vikram’s dented hatchback, the stale smell of cigarettes and fast food hung heavy. Rajeev fumbled for his phone, his fingers greasy. He opened WhatsApp, selecting Armaan’s name. "Bhai sahab! Kya gaand hai teri Bangalan ki!" he typed, the words clumsy with lust. "Pura saree ghus gaya beech mein... gaand ka cleavage dikha diya saali ne! Exhibitionist rand! Video bhej na ab office mein... kuch kaam karte hue. Blouse ke andar se chuche dikh rahe hogi?"

 

Vikram snatched the phone, adding his own filth. "Haan yaar! Ek video bhej jahan woh bend ho... pet ka fold aur gaand dono dikhe. Saali ki chikni chamdi ko daba ke laal karna hai!" He hit send, the message whooshing away. The car engine coughed to life, but they didn’t move, staring at the screen, waiting. Rajeev licked his lips, imagining Chaitali’s dusky skin flushed red under office lights. "Blouse tight hai na? Jab woh baith ke typing karegi... chuche table pe rakh degi kya? Nipples hard honge AC mein... outline clear dikhega!" Vikram chuckled darkly. "Aur skirt mein? Petticoat ke andar thighs... moti thighs ka sweat dikhega? Saali ke kapde utar ke usko table pe patak dena chahiye... gaand maarni hai!"

 

Outside, Vikram’s dented SUV coughed to life. Rajeev stabbed at his phone screen, saliva beading at the corner of his mouth. "Armaan bhai! Kya maal pakda hai tune! Gaand dekh ke lund tight ho gaya!" he typed, thumbs clumsy. "Ab office ke andar ki video bhej na yaar... saali typing karti hue. Blouse tight hoga na? Nipple outline dikhega? Chuchiyan table pe ragad rahi hogi?" He hit send, the vulgarity vibrating into the ether.

 

Inside Vatika, Armaan leaned against the cool glass partition of his first-floor brokerage office, phone buzzing against his thigh. Below, Chaitali hunched over her reception desk, the fluorescent light glinting off her sweat-slicked temples. Her pale yellow saree blouse strained across her 38-inch bust as she reached for a file, the thin fabric betraying the heavy sway of her breasts, the dark outline of her nipple hardening against the sudden chill of the AC vent above. Armaan’s thumb hovered over his phone’s camera app, zooming in. "Patience, gandu log," he muttered under his breath, a predatory grin spreading. "Pehle setting poori karni padegi. Saali ko apne aap mera room mein aana padega... tab video banaunga. Puri nangi. Gaand pe belt ke nishaan bana ke." He captured a discreet, grainy video snippet – just three seconds – focusing on the way her blouse gaped as she bent, the soft fold of her belly pressing against the desk edge, the sheer effort making her breath hitch audibly. He sent it with a single, crude caption: "Fresh maal ki morning struggle. Dekh chuche kaise hile? Abhi toh shuruat hai."

The vibration against Armaan’s thigh was insistent, almost angry, as he steadied his phone. Through the screen, Chaitali Ghosh bent deeper over the filing cabinet, the stretch of her polyester saree blouse straining across the lush curve of her back, the fabric pulling taut where it met the waistband of her saree. Her dusky skin glowed under the harsh office fluorescents, a bead of sweat tracing the dip of her spine. The notification flashed: "Saali kaala kaluta." Armaan’s thumb hovered, smudging the lens. He didn’t look away from the screen.

 

Armaan pocketed the phone, the heat of the device seeping through his linen trousers. His pulse hammered not with guilt, but a predatory thrill. She was ordinary – thick-waisted, her face forgettable beneath a fringe of frizzy hair – yet the raw, unadorned shape of her, bent and unaware, ignited something feral in him. He imagined the weight of her hips, the give of flesh beneath his grip.

 

The phone buzzed again, vibrating against his thigh like an impatient insect. The screen illuminated with a new demand: "Closer. NOW." Armaan’s mouth went dry. He took a silent step forward, the worn carpet muffling his approach. The air conditioning hummed, but Chaitali’s proximity radiated a different heat – the faint musk of sweat mingling with coconut hair oil, the rustle of her saree as she shifted. His thumb swiped the screen, zooming in with practiced stealth.

 

Her saree blouse gaped slightly as she reached higher, revealing a sliver of dark skin where the fabric strained against the swell of her back. The thin polyester clung, damp with perspiration, outlining the sturdy band of her blouse’s inner lining and the soft, heavy flesh beneath. Armaan’s breath hitched. He could almost feel the texture – the smooth slide of sweat-slicked skin under his palm, the surprising resilience beneath the softness, the way her body would resist and then yield. The thought sent a sharp, electric jolt down his spine, settling low in his gut.

 

He was close enough now to see the fine, dark hairs at her nape, plastered down by sweat, and the intricate pattern of her bra strap faintly visible through the thin blouse. The scent intensified – not just coconut oil, but the warm, earthy tang of her exertion, layered with the faint, metallic hint of the old filing cabinet. His own skin prickled, the cool linen of his trousers suddenly abrasive against the heat building between his legs. The phone vibrated once more in his pocket, a silent, urgent command he felt rather than heard.

 

Chaitali straightened abruptly, a stack of files clutched to her chest. Her shoulder brushed against his arm – a brief, accidental contact that sent a jolt through him. Her eyes, wide and startled, met his for a fraction of a second. They were dark, almost black, framed by thick lashes, holding a flicker of confusion before veiling into the polite, distant look reserved for colleagues. "Oh! Mr. Armaan," she murmured, her voice slightly breathless from bending. "I didn't hear you come in." The files pressed against her saree blouse, momentarily flattening the generous swell of her breasts before they settled back into their soft weight as she adjusted her grip.

 

He offered a practiced, disarming smile, stepping back just enough to create a semblance of space. "Chaitali, please, just Armaan. We're all colleagues here." He gestured vaguely towards the cabinet she’d been wrestling with. "Looks like you’ve got your hands full. Long day?" His gaze lingered, not on the files, but on the faint flush creeping up her neck, the way the damp tendrils of hair clung to her temples. He could still smell the warm, intimate scent of her exertion, mingling with the cheap floral detergent of her saree. The predatory focus shifted, morphing into a calculated charm. "Actually," he continued smoothly, leaning in slightly as if sharing a confidence, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that vibrated in the small space between them, "I was wondering if you might be free this evening? There's this new Bengali place in Cyber Hub – supposedly authentic, unlike the watered-down stuff they serve elsewhere. Thought you might appreciate a taste of home after a day like this?" He watched her intently, noting the subtle shift in her posture, the slight parting of her lips.

 

Chaitali blinked, the unexpectedness of the invitation momentarily scattering her thoughts. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the files, the rough cardboard edges pressing into her palms. A dinner date? With Armaan? He was effortlessly polished, the kind of man who moved through the sleek glass-and-steel world of Vatika with an easy confidence she could only mimic. Her own reflection in the mirrored office walls – the slightly-too-tight blouse, the practical but unflattering bun, the ordinary face flushed with heat and surprise – seemed jarringly inadequate. Yet, the mention of authentic Bengali food sparked a visceral pang of homesickness, a yearning for the familiar comfort of mustard fish and steaming rice. The warmth of his proximity, the low timbre of his voice still resonating in her ear, created a confusing flutter low in her belly. "Oh," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with the soft cadence of her native tongue. "That... that is very kind, Mr. Armaan."

 

Armaan watched the subtle play of emotions cross her face: the initial wariness, the flicker of longing, the faint bloom of colour deepening the dusky hue of her cheeks. The demure hesitation was intoxicating, far more potent than any overt flirtation. He saw the way her gaze darted away, then back to his face, the slight tremor in her lower lip before she pressed them together. It was the look of someone unaccustomed to such attention, a vulnerability he found deeply alluring. He maintained the easy smile, leaning back just enough to lessen the intensity but keeping his focus entirely on her. "Kindness has nothing to do with it," he countered smoothly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Call it professional curiosity. I hear you have an eye for detail in the CRM reports. Maybe you can share some insights over some decent ilish?" He deliberately invoked the prized Hilsa fish, a potent symbol of Bengali culinary pride, watching for the inevitable softening in her guarded expression.

 

Chaitali felt a confusing warmth spread through her chest, a mix of flattery and nervousness tightening her throat. The scent of old paper and dust from the files mingled with the lingering trace of his expensive cologne – sandalwood and something darker, spicier. His proximity, even slightly withdrawn, still felt charged, the air thick with an unspoken tension that made her skin prickle. The thought of authentic ilish, the memory of her mother’s kitchen in Kolkata, the simple, profound comfort of flavours she hadn’t tasted properly since moving to Gurgaon… it was a siren call. She shifted her weight, the rough edge of a file digging into her forearm, grounding her momentarily. "Insights?" she echoed softly, a small, almost shy smile finally touching her lips. "I... I suppose I could manage that. Tonight?" The question was tentative, her voice barely rising above the hum of the AC, carrying the soft lilt of her accent. She avoided his direct gaze, focusing instead on the knot of her saree pallu resting against her ample hip, her fingers unconsciously smoothing the fabric.

 

Armaan’s smile deepened, a satisfied curve that didn’t quite reach the cool calculation in his eyes. He noted the slight tremor in her fingers as they fussed with the saree, the way her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Her demure acceptance, the quiet surrender in her voice, was precisely the reaction he’d anticipated – the unassuming Bengali woman, flattered and disarmed by the attention of a sophisticated colleague. "Perfect," he purred, the word vibrating with a low resonance. "I know it’s short notice, but the place gets packed. Shall we say eight? I can pick you up." He didn’t phrase it as a question, the smooth assurance leaving little room for her to suggest meeting there. His gaze drifted down, not lingering overtly, but taking in the way her saree blouse stretched across the full swell of her bosom as she clutched the files, the damp patch at the small of her back darkening the thin polyester. The raw, earthy reality of her body, so different from the polished women he usually pursued, held a perverse fascination. "Text me your address," he added, already turning slightly, the dismissal implicit yet wrapped in charm. "I look forward to it, Chaitali."

 

Chaitali watched him stride away, the confident set of his shoulders, the expensive drap e of his linen jacket. A flush of heat, unrelated to the office warmth, crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. The files suddenly felt heavy and awkward in her arms. Dinner. With Armaan. The reality sank in, a confusing cocktail of fluttering excitement and deep-seated unease.

 

She returned to her cramped desk, the hum of her computer monitor a dull counterpoint to the frantic pulse in her ears. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed her address into a message, the glow of the screen illuminating the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbone. The scent of coconut oil and exertion seemed amplified now, mingling with the sterile smell of office air. He called it professional curiosity, she thought, the phrase echoing with an ambiguity that tightened her stomach. Was it? Or was it something else, something hinted at by the lingering intensity of his gaze, the low vibration in his voice when he said her name?

 

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a haze of mundane tasks – processing client queries, updating spreadsheets – yet Chaitali’s mind remained anchored to the promise of eight o’clock. A flutter of anticipation warred with a gnawing unease deep in her gut. She pictured the restaurant, imagined the rich aroma of mustard seeds tempering in oil, the delicate flesh of ilish flaking onto her tongue. The homesickness was a tangible ache, a physical yearning that momentarily overshadowed her apprehension. She smoothed her saree pallu, the familiar cotton texture grounding her, while unconsciously adjusting the neckline of her blouse, feeling the damp fabric cling persistently to the soft, heavy swell beneath.

 

Her phone buzzed on the desk, a sharp vibration cutting through the office murmur. The screen lit up with Armaan’s name. Her breath caught, a sudden jolt of nerves tightening her chest as she opened the message: "Dress code casual chic tonite. Btw, what u planning 2 wear? ?" The casual Hinglish, the unexpected wink emoji – it felt jarringly intimate, a stark contrast to his polished office persona. Chaitali stared at the words, confusion knitting her brows together. Why would he care what she wore?

 

Her fingers hovered over the keypad, the plastic cool against her skin. She typed slowly, the familiar rhythm of Bengali transliteration kicking in: "Sir, saree ya phir salwar kameez hi pehenungi. Woh formal aur comfortable hota hai na?" She hesitated, then added, "Bengali place mein toh suit karega?" She hit send, a flush creeping up her neck. It seemed the obvious choice, the fabric of home, a shield against the unfamiliar territory of a dinner with him.

 

Armaan’s reply buzzed instantly, sharp and jarring: "Arre no no! Too much cloth, Chaitali! ? Try something... modern? Like maybe a nice dress? Legs show karo thoda?" The wink emoji pulsed like an obscene afterthought. Chaitali stared, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright. Legs show? A dress? Her mind scrambled. Sarees and salwars were her armour, dbanging her ample curves in respectful anonymity. The thought of bare legs, the cling of unfamiliar fabric, felt like an indecent exposure. Sweat prickled beneath her cotton blouse, the dampness spreading across her back where the polyester clung. "But... but saree toh decent hai," she mumbled aloud, her voice thick with confusion, the Bengali lilt more pronounced in her distress. "Dress? Main... main aise kabhi..." Her sentence trailed off, unfinished, swallowed by the hum of the office.

 

Her fingers trembled as she typed, the plastic keys slick under her fingertips: "Sir, dress? Mere paas toh... woh..." She erased it, started again, the Hinglish clumsy with anxiety. "Actually sir, dresses suit nahi karte mujhe. Figure ke hisaab se. Saree hi theek rahega na?" She hit send, her knuckles white. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. She pictured him reading it, that cool calculation in his eyes, perhaps a smirk playing on his lips. The air conditioning felt suddenly frigid against the heat blooming on her cheeks and chest, the contrast making her shiver. The familiar scent of her coconut oil seemed cloying now, mixed with the smell of her own nervous sweat.

 

The phone buzzed, a sharp vibration that made her jump. His message was curt: "Arre yaar, don't be so boring! ? Try karo ek baar. Tight jeans aur crop top? Something fun! Gurgaon hai, Kolkata nahi." Chaitali blinked, the words blurring. Boring? Crop top? Her mind conjured the image – the soft swell of her belly exposed, the heavy curve of her hips straining against denim. A wave of hot shame washed over her, prickling her scalp, tightening her throat. She instinctively pulled her saree pallu tighter across her chest, the fabric rough against her collarbone. "Crop top?" she whispered aloud, the Bengali lilt thick with disbelief. "Main? Ami?" Her voice cracked. The fluorescent lights hummed, suddenly oppressive.

 

Her fingers fumbled over the keypad, slick with nervous sweat. "Sir, crop top toh... woh... mere liye bilkul bhi..." She erased it, starting again, the Hinglish fractured by panic. "Actually sir, maine kabhi pehna hi nahi. " She hit send, her breath shallow. The silence stretched, thick with imagined judgment. She pictured his smirk, the cool dismissal in his eyes.

 

The phone buzzed instantly, the vibration sharp against her trembling thigh. "Chill kar, Chaitali! ? Just experiment. Market mein jao, try karo kuch. U'll look hot, trust me." The word "hot" pulsed on the screen like a brand. Chaitali flinched, the fluorescent lights bleaching the colour from her dusky skin. Experiment?  Her mind reeled – the crowded, judgmental aisles of Gurgaon boutiques, the disdainful glances at her thick waist, the shame of fabric refusing to drap e kindly over her 42-inch hips. Sweat beaded along her hairline, the coconut oil scent turning sour with anxiety. "Experiment kya?" she whispered hoarsely to the empty cubicle, the Bengali laced with panic. "Amar moto meye ke crop top pore market e jabe?" The image was grotesque, humiliating. Her fingers, slick and cold, fumbled a reply: "Sir, time nahi hai market ka. Aur... woh... confidence nahi hai."

 

Silence. Then, another buzz, insistent: "Fine. Saree peheno. But silk. Tight blouse. Low back. Show some skin, yaar! Be bold tonite! ?" Chaitali stared. Silk? Low back? Her everyday cotton sarees were practicality, modesty. Silk meant expense, attention, the unbearable slide of fabric against her sweat-damp skin. The "low back" demand felt like a violation, stripping her of her shield. The damp patch on her polyester blouse spread, chilling her spine. She pictured the stretch of silk across her heavy breasts, the vulnerable dip of her back exposed under restaurant lights. "Skin?" she breathed, the word thick and foreign. "Chhoto blouse? Pichhon khula?" Her knuckles whitened around the phone. "Sir, mere paas aisa kuch nahi hai," she typed, the lie tasting like ash. She owned one stiff silk saree, bought for her brother’s wedding, its blouse high-necked, demure.

 

Her fingers hovered, trembling. "Aur... woh... comfortable nahi hoga." She sent it, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder, amplifying the frantic pulse in her temples. The scent of her own anxiety – sharp, salty – cut through the coconut oil. She imagined his eyes, not on her face, but tracing the imagined curve of her exposed spine, the swell barely contained by silk. A wave of heat, part shame, part unwelcome thrill, washed over her. Her thighs pressed together instinctively beneath the desk, the cheap polyester of her petticoat chafing against damp skin. The message felt like a command, reducing her to contours he wanted unveiled.

 

The reply buzzed instantly, a physical jolt: "Comfort is boring, Chaitali! ? Wear something that makes u feel sexy. U have the assets, use them! Low back silk blouse. Final." The word "assets" landed like a slap. She flinched, her knuckles white around the phone. Assets? Like she was inventory. Her thick waist, her heavy breasts – things to be displayed? Sweat beaded along her upper lip, cold despite the office chill. "Sexy?" she whispered, the Bengali lilt thick with disbelief. "Ami ki... sexy lagbo?" The image felt grotesque – her ordinary face above an indecent blouse. The damp patch under her arms spread, the polyester clinging like a second skin. She typed, the letters blurring: "Sir, please... main... main aise nahi..." She erased it. Resistance felt futile, dangerous. He held the power, the polished charm that could turn cold.

 

Her mind raced through her meagre wardrobe back in her cramped PG room. The single silk saree – maroon, stiff, bought years ago. Its blouse was high-necked, long-sleeved, armour against scrutiny. Low back? Panic clawed at her throat. She pictured the fabric scissors in her sewing kit, the brutal snip of threads, the terrifying exposure. The scent of old cotton and dust from her suitcase seemed to fill the cubicle. "Kivabe korbo?" she murmured, the Bengali slipping out, raw and helpless. "Pichhon khule kivabe jabo?" How could she walk with her back bare? The vulnerability was paralyzing. Her fingers, slick and clumsy, finally typed surrender: "Okay sir. Try karungi." The lie tasted metallic. She had no idea how she’d obey.

The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the cheap laminate of her desk like a trapped wasp. "Good girl. ? 8 sharp. Be ready." The "good girl" stung, condescending, yet a treacherous heat pooled low in her belly, mingling with the shame. She shoved the phone into her bag, the screen still glowing with his command.  "Ready for what?" The question echoed, hollow and terrifying.

 

Rushing out of the office, the Gurgaon evening air hit her face – thick with exhaust fumes and the cloying sweetness of blooming raat-ki-rani flowers – but offered no relief. Her mind was a frantic whirl: Silk. Low back. Assets. Her everyday cotton sari felt suddenly like a shroud, heavy and inadequate. She needed armour, or at least a translator for this alien language of "sexy." Her feet carried her automatically towards Anita’s apartment in DLF Phase 2, the familiar route a lifeline. Anita, her college friend from Kolkata, now a brash marketing executive, was her anchor in this bewildering city. She dialled, fingers trembling. "Anita? Ami ashtechi. Ektu kotha ache. Khub joruri." Her voice cracked, the Bengali raw with unshed tears.

 

Anita’s cramped apartment smelled of stale pizza and strong perfume. Chaitali stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching her worn handbag like a shield. "Dekho na, Anita," she burst out, the Hinglish tumbling over Bengali in her distress. "Aaj raat dinner hai... office wale Armaan ke saath. Usne bola... silk saree peheno, tight blouse, aur... pichhon khula hona chahiye! Low back!" Her hands fluttered helplessly towards her own covered back. "Amar moto meye? Pichhon khule? Market mein?" Sweat prickled beneath her arms despite the AC’s blast, the damp cotton of her blouse chafing. "Ami ki korbo? Amar kache toh ekta silk ache, Shubho'r biye-r jonno, par blouse ta puro covering wala!" The image of herself, exposed and ridiculous, burned behind her eyelids.

 

Anita snorted, swirling cheap wine in a chipped mug. "Low back? Arre wah, saala player hai tera Armaan!" She eyed Chaitali’s flustered form, the sturdy silhouette beneath the simple sari. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "Listen, Chaitali," she leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Forget blouse. Blouse is bakwaas. Too much drama. Tu bas ekta sexy bra pehen. Silk saree, no blouse. Just bra. Aur pallu thoda hawa mein rehne de." She gestured vaguely towards Chaitali’s ample chest. "Dekh, teri figure bomb hai yaar! Show it off! Gurgaon hai, purana zamana nahi."

 

Chaitali gasped, stumbling back as if physically struck. Her dusky skin paled visibly under the harsh overhead bulb. "Ki bolcho, Anita?" she choked out, the Bengali sharp with horror. "Just bra? Saree ke niche?" Her hands flew instinctively to cover her breasts. "Ami pagol hoye jabo!" Sweat bloomed instantly across her collarbone, the damp cotton of her blouse suddenly suffocating. "Saree phash jabe! Kichui toh cover korbe na!" The image was unthinkable – the thin silk saree, the stark outline of her sturdy bra, the terrifying possibility of slippage. Her breath hitched, a panicked flutter low in her belly. "Log kya kahenge? Armaan sahab... woh..." Her voice trailed off, thick with imagined shame.

 

Anita rolled her eyes, taking a gulp of wine. "Arre stupid!" she snapped, her Hinglish cutting through Chaitali's panic. "Tera Armaan sahab wants sexy, na? Woh low back ka bakra kya? Bra pehen ke silk saree, pallu seedha rakho, thoda shoulder dikhao. Classy lagta hai!" She gestured dismissively. "Teri back? Dekh, teri kamar aur pith ka line... solid hai yaar! Smooth, dusky... ekdum item!" Anita leaned closer, her perfume clashing with the stale pizza smell. "Trust me. Blouse pehenogi toh wohi purana wala look. Bra peheno... bold lagegi. Tension mat le" She winked, a gesture that only deepened Chaitali's mortification.

 

Chaitali clutched the edge of Anita's cheap IKEA sofa, her knuckles bone-white. "Item?" she whispered, the Bengali word thick with revulsion. "Ami item?" Her mind reeled – the sheer vulnerability of it, the thin barrier of silk saree against her sturdy, everyday bra. She imagined the fabric catching, the pallu slipping, the terrifying moment of exposure in the crowded restaurant. Sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts, the damp cotton of her current blouse clinging like a shroud. "Anita... please... yeh possible nahi," she choked out, her voice trembling. "Bra ka strap... pichhon se... dikh jayega! Aur... chhuchhe... shape... sabko pata chal jayega!" The shame was a physical weight, pressing her into the sofa.

 

Anita barked, the Hinglish sharp and impatient. "Tune kabhi dekha hai fashion? Actresses pehenti hain! Classy lagta hai! Tere figure mein itna kuch nahi jo chhupana pade!" She jabbed a finger towards Chaitali’s covered chest. "Tera Armaan wohi dekhna chahta hai! Confidence chahiye! Blouse pehen ke jayegi toh woh bore ho jayega!" Anita leaned in, her breath sour with cheap wine. "Try kar na ek baar"  Her eyes gleamed with a perverse challenge.

 

Chaitali fled the apartment, Anita’s words chasing her down the elevator shaft – boring, assets, item. The humid Gurgaon night pressed close, thick with exhaust fumes and the sickly sweetness of night-blooming jasmine, mirroring the cloying panic coating her throat. Inside her crampedroom, the single bulb cast harsh shadows on the peeling paint. The maroon silk saree lay on her narrow bed, a pool of deep, unsettling colour next to the stiff, high-necked wedding blouse. Its fabric felt cool, alien, under her trembling fingers as she unfolded it. The memory of Anita’s suggestion – just bra – pulsed like a bruise. She traced the intricate gold zari border, the threads rough against her calloused fingertip, a stark contrast to the imagined, terrifying slide of silk against bare skin. Sweat prickled beneath her arms, the dampness seeping through her cotton office blouse, chilling her despite the room’s stifling heat. Could she? Walk into that restaurant, the silk whispering secrets against her sturdy, practical bra, the outline visible, the back exposed? The vulnerability felt like standing naked on a stage. Her breath hitched, a raw scrap e in her chest, as she lifted the saree, its heavy drap e whispering promises of exposure she wasn’t sure she could bear.

 

She held the silk against her body in front of the cracked mirror, the cool fabric a shock against the warm, damp cotton covering her 42-inch hips. The deep maroon deepened the duskiness of her skin, but the reflection showed only a woman overwhelmed – frizzy hair escaping her bun, eyes wide with apprehension, the ordinary lines of her face stark under the harsh light. Anita’s voice echoed: "Teri back... smooth, dusky... ekdum item!" Chaitali’s fingers instinctively flew to cover the swell of her breasts beneath the saree pallu she’d hastily drap ed. Item. The word tasted like ash. She imagined the restaurant’s low lighting catching the curve of her spine where the silk would dip low, the sturdy band of her everyday beige bra starkly visible against her skin. A flush of heat, equal parts shame and an unwelcome, treacherous flicker of something else, spread from her collarbone down to her belly. Could confidence, as Anita claimed, be stitched into defiance? The silk felt heavy, demanding, its luxurious weight a counterpoint to the cheap polyester petticoat clinging to her damp thighs. She pictured Armaan’s eyes, not on her face, but tracing the exposed line, the assets. Her knuckles whitened on the silk. Just bra. The sheer audacity of it made her lightheaded.

 

With trembling hands, Chaitali turned from the mirror and knelt before the battered suitcase shoved under her narrow bed. Dust motes danced in the single bulb’s glare as she lifted the lid, releasing the familiar, comforting scent of home – dried neem leaves, faint traces of sandalwood soap, and the mustiness of stored cotton. Nestled beside folded salwar kameez and her few good sarees lay her collection of bras, carefully arranged on top of a faded floral towel. They were practical things: sturdy cotton in beige and white, wide straps designed for support, thick bands to anchor the soft, heavy weight of her 38D breasts. One was slightly frayed at the underwire casing; another, the newest, had faint lace edging she’d thought daring months ago. She touched them, the worn elastic yielding slightly under her fingertip. These were shields, not displays. They flattened and contained, promised invisibility beneath her blouses. None spoke of low backs or exposure. None were sexy. The dampness under her arms intensified, a cold prickle against her flushed skin. "Bra pehen ke silk saree," Anita’s voice insisted. The image felt less grotesque now, more terrifyingly possible – the silk whispering over these familiar contours, the outline of these functional garments visible through the fine weave. Which one? The plainest? The one with lace? Did the lace make it less… functional? More… intended? A wave of nausea churned low in her gut, the cheap office canteen tea sour in her throat.

 

 

 

 

[Mohit.Kumar]

******

[Tamilmathi]

There is no need to show any photos,
This is not my command ,
My request , remove the images ,
Of your story ....

[Mohit.Kumar]

The headlights of Armaan’s sleek, dark sedan sliced through the dusty twilight of her modest Gurgaon lane like twin blades, illuminating stray dogs and the startled eyes of neighbours leaning out from balconies. It was precisely eight. Chaitali stood frozen just inside her building’s grimy entrance, the heavy silk of the maroon saree a cool, alien weight against her skin. She had dbangd it meticulously, the pallu pulled securely across her chest and shoulders, covering her collarbones entirely, the fabric cascading in thick, concealing folds.

Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in her chest, she stepped out. The humid night air, thick with the scent of frying oil and sewage, clung to her instantly. She felt the silk cling too, dampening against the small of her back where perspiration had already begun to bead despite the evening cool. Her feet, encased in unfamiliar low heels, felt unsteady on the cracked pavement. She kept her gaze fixed on the car’s tinted windshield, avoiding the curious stares, her fingers unconsciously tightening the pallu’s grip as she approached the passenger door.

The car’s interior exhaled a wave of chilled, leather-scented air as the door swung open. Armaan leaned across the centre console, his smile a white slash in the dashboard’s soft glow. "Chaitali," he purred, his gaze sweeping over her covered form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "You look... traditional." The slight pause before the word, the faint arch of his eyebrow, transformed it from observation into a subtle, knowing critique. She murmured a greeting, sliding onto the cool leather seat, the movement making the silk whisper loudly in the sudden quiet. She arranged the pallu carefully, ensuring the deep maroon folds completely obscured her shoulders and the swell of her breasts, the fabric a heavy, reassuring shield against his appraisal.

As the car glided into the chaotic Gurgaon traffic, the silence thickened. Chaitali stared out at the blur of neon signs and headlights, acutely aware of Armaan’s presence beside her – the expensive scent of his aftershave, the faint rustle of his linen jacket, the low hum of the powerful engine vibrating through the seat and up her spine. Her own scent – coconut oil, nervous sweat, and the faint, dusty aroma of the silk – felt embarrassingly primal in contrast.

Armaan’s hand rested casually on the gear shift, his thumb tapping a slow rhythm. His gaze slid sideways, lingering not on her face, but on the heavy dbang of the maroon pallu covering her shoulder. "The silk suits you," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that resonated in the confined space. "Deep colours... they complement your skin tone." His fingers flexed slightly on the gear knob. "Though," he added, a hint of playful challenge in his tone, "I was hoping for a glimpse of that famous Bengali back. Silk against skin... it’s quite a sight." He didn’t look at her as he said it, focusing on the road, but the words landed like a physical touch, making the fine hairs on her nape prickle.

Chaitali stiffened, her knuckles whitening where they clutched the pallu’s edge. The cool silk suddenly felt suffocating against her collarbone. "Sir," she began, her voice tight, the Bengali lilt thickening her Hinglish, "aapko pata hai, humare yahan... it’s not... not usual." She swallowed, the movement visible in the tense line of her throat. "Blouse pehenti hain. Proper." The word "proper" came out sharper than intended, a shield against his probing gaze.

Armaan chuckled, a low, smooth sound that vibrated through the leather seat. He navigated a sharp turn, the centrifugal force pressing Chaitali momentarily against the door, the silk whispering urgently. "Proper?" he echoed, his eyes flicking to her reflection in the rearview mirror. "But Chaitali, proper can be boring. Dekho na, that silk..." He gestured vaguely towards her shoulder with his free hand. "...it’s begging to show a little skin. Kuchh toh dikhao, yaar. What’s underneath?" His tone was light, teasing, but his gaze remained sharp, dissecting her covered form. "Or," he leaned infinitesimally closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur laced with Hindi, "kya tumne kuchh... interesting pehna hai? Koi lace? Koi design?" The intimate question hung in the chilled air, charged with an expectation that made her skin prickle beneath the heavy silk.

Chaitali felt a flush ignite across her chest and climb her neck, hot and undeniable. The cool air conditioning suddenly felt like needles against her heated skin. She clutched the pallu tighter, the intricate zari border digging into her palm. Her mouth went dry. "Sir," she stammered, the Bengali lilt heavy, "it’s... it’s just a blouse. Simple." She forced herself to look straight ahead, focusing on the blur of neon-lit shops. "Cotton. High neck." The lie tasted metallic.  He knows, a frantic voice whispered inside her. He knows it’s not a blouse. Sweat beaded along her hairline, threatening to escape.

Armaan’s chuckle was low, predatory. He shifted gears smoothly, his knuckles brushing her knee for a fleeting, electric instant. "Cotton? High neck? Arre yaar, Chaitali," he teased, his Hindi laced with playful disbelief. "With this silk? Seems... mismatched, no?"  He paused, letting the implication hang. "Tell me, sach batao... is it lace? Silk? Or maybe..." he lowered his voice, leaning closer, "...maybe kuchh bhi nahi?" His breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, ghosted over her temple. The car’s engine hummed, vibrating through the seat, syncing with the frantic pulse pounding in her wrists.

"Nahi, sir!" she blurted, the Bengali sharp, panicked. "Blouse hai. Proper blouse!" Her fingers twisted the pallu’s edge, the zari border biting into her damp palm. The lie felt thick and clumsy on her tongue. "It is... decent," she whispered, her voice trembling, the English word sounding hollow.

Armaan’s smirk deepened in the dashboard glow. He smoothly guided the car into the Cyber Hub parking, the sudden silence amplifying the frantic thud of Chaitali’s heart against her ribs. "Decent?" he murmured, shifting into park. His gaze slid down, lingering on the heavy folds of silk concealing her chest. "Par Chaitali, decent toh boring hota hai." He leaned closer, the scent of sandalwood and mint suddenly overwhelming. "Let me guess," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "sada safed cotton? Ekdum college teacher ki tarah?" His hand hovered near her shoulder, not touching, but radiating an intrusive heat. "Ya phir... kuchh aur?"

Chaitali flinched, shrinking back against the cool leather. Sweat bloomed anew beneath the silk, a cold, clammy layer on her lower back where the saree dipped slightly. "Nahi, sir... please..." she stammered, the Bengali laced with raw panic. Her fingers fumbled with the car door handle, desperate for escape. "Bas... ek normal blouse hai. Kuchh khaas nahi."

Armaan’s laugh was a low rumble as he exited the car, circling to open her door before she could manage it herself. The humid night air rushed in, thick and cloying. "Normal?" he echoed, his gaze sweeping over her dbangd form as she awkwardly unfolded herself onto the pavement. "Chaitali, tumhari normal toh bahut interesting lagti hai." His hand settled possessively on the small of her back, right where the silk met bare skin above her petticoat waistband. The sudden, intimate heat of his palm through the thin fabric sent a jolt through her.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Inside the dimly lit Bengali restaurant, the air vibrated with the clatter of plates, the nasal twang of Rabindra Sangeet, and the rich, unmistakable scent of shorshe ilish. Chaitali’s stomach clenched with both hunger and dread. Armaan guided her towards a secluded corner booth, his hand still a brand on her back. As she slid onto the plush velvet bench, the silk of her saree caught momentarily on the upholstery. She felt the delicate fabric shift, threatening to pull away from the high dbang over her shoulder. Her breath hitched, fingers flying to secure the pallu. "Dekhiye na, sir!" she whispered urgently, the Bengali sharp with panic. "Yeh silk phisal raha hai..."

Armaan settled opposite her, his smile a lazy curve in the candlelight. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tablecloth, his gaze fixed on the vulnerable curve of her shoulder where the pallu had momentarily slipped. "Phisalne do, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, blending Hindi with a deliberate slowness. "Tabhi toh pata chalega tumne andar kya pehna hai. Silk aur skin... ek achha combination hai." The waiter arrived, breaking the tension momentarily. Armaan ordered without consulting her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do ilish bhaja, doi begun, aur ek bottle Sauvignon Blanc. Cold." He dismissed the waiter with a nod, then refocused on Chaitali. "Wine pasand hai? Ya phir... kuchh aur?"

"Sir, main... wine nahi peeti ." she stammered, her Bengali accent thickening her Hinglish. "Ek glass paani hi theek rahega." Her fingers nervously traced the rim of her water glass, the condensation slick against her skin. The scent of mustard oil and fish, usually comforting, now churned her stomach.

Armaan waved a dismissive hand, his smile sharpening. "Arre yaar, Chaitali! Dinner without drinks?" He snapped his fingers towards the retreating waiter. "Change that wine. Whisky. Single malt. Neat. Do glasses." His gaze locked onto hers, challenging. "Tum bhi piyogi. Try karo. Gurgaon mein adapt karna padta hai."

Chaitali blinked, confusion knitting her brows. "Whisky?" The foreign word felt heavy on her tongue. "Sir, main toh... kabhi..." Her voice trailed off, the Bengali lilt thick with bewilderment. She pictured the amber liquid she’d seen in movies – harsh, burning. Her stomach, already unsettled, clenched tighter. "Paani hi..."

Armaan leaned back, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Arre, don't be such a desi, Chaitali." The Hindi word landed like a slap, sharp and condescending in the intimate candlelight. "It's smooth. Classy. Like this place." He gestured vaguely at the dimly lit restaurant. "Tumhe pata hai, tumhari simplicity... achhi hai, par thodi boring bhi." His gaze drifted pointedly to the high dbang of her pallu. "Whiskey peene se tumhari aankhon mein chamak aa jayegi. Confidence badhega."

Chaitali stared at the polished tabletop, the reflection of the flickering candle flame warping in the dark wood. Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, fumbled with the edge of her pallu. "Confidence, sir?" she echoed, the Bengali lilt thick with confusion. "Lekin... main toh..." The words tangled on her tongue. How could burning liquid in her throat make her less boring? Make her back... worthy? She felt the heavy silk shift against her skin, the phantom pressure of Anita’s imagined lace bra beneath it. "Mujhe nahi lagta..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, "ki whisky se... kuchh change hoga."

Armaan chuckled. The waiter arrived with two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle, the amber liquid catching the candlelight. He poured a generous measure into each glass, the sharp, peaty aroma instantly cutting through the comforting scent of mustard fish. "Sab kuchh try karna chahiye, Chaitali," he insisted, sliding one glass forcefully towards her. His knuckles brushed her wrist – a deliberate, lingering touch that sent a jolt of heat up her arm. "Pehle ek sip lo. Bas." His gaze, intense and unwavering, pinned her in place. "Dekho, main bhi pee raha hoon." He raised his glass, took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim. "Tumhari turn."

"Sir... main..." she stammered, the Bengali thick with hesitation. "Peene ka... experience nahi hai." The weight of the glass felt immense, the expectation heavier. She lifted it hesitantly, the sharp, medicinal smell stinging her nostrils. Closing her eyes, she took a small, desperate sip. The liquid hit her tongue – an immediate, shocking assault. Fire exploded in her mouth, racing down her throat, searing a path to her stomach. She gasped, choking, tears springing to her eyes as a violent cough wracked her body. The silk pallu slipped further, revealing a sliver of bare shoulder above the high neckline she didn't have. Her free hand flew to her burning throat.

Armaan watched, his expression a mask of amused detachment. "Arre yaar," he chuckled, the Hindi word sharp and condescending. "Itna bhi kharab nahi hai. Thoda sa hi piya tune. Like medicine, no? Ek aur sip lo, taste aa jayega." He nudged the glass closer with his finger. Her eyes, wide and watering, met his – pure, unvarnished confusion swimming in their dark depths. Why inflict this burning? How did this connect to confidence, to being less boring? The comforting aroma of mustard fish seemed a cruel joke now, drowned by the harsh peat smoke clinging to her palate. Her tongue felt numb.

"Nahi, sir... please," she rasped, the Bengali lilt thick with distress, her hand still pressed against her throat where the fire still smouldered. "Mujse nahi hoga." She pushed the glass away. Armaan leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the involuntary tremor in her fingers. "Tum tension lete ho bahut, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice dropping to a velvet-soft purr that vibrated unnervingly in the intimate booth. "Relax karo. Isse hi tension kam hoti hai. Thoda aur... just a little. For me?" He lifted his own glass, swirling the amber liquid, the ice clinking like a taunt. "Dekho, main bhi pee raha hoon." He took another smooth sip, his eyes never leaving hers, a silent dare hanging in the air thick with spice and unease.

"Lekin... kyu, sir?" she whispered, her voice raw. "Mujhe toh... bura lag raha hai."  The confusion was etched deep in her wide, dark eyes – a genuine bewilderment at why this burning liquid, this insistence, was necessary. Her tongue still felt thick and numb, the ghost of the whisky's fire lingering in her sinuses. She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, grounding herself against the unsettling warmth spreading from her stomach and the dizzying intimacy of his unwavering gaze.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan leaned closer, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. His fingers brushed the back of her trembling hand resting on the tablecloth – a touch that sent a fresh jolt of heat up her arm, distinct from the alcohol's burn. "Because, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in the small space between them, "sometimes, feeling a little... bad... makes everything else feel good. Sharper. Sweeter." He nudged her glass again, the crystal scbanging softly on the linen. "Ek aur sip. Small one. Just taste it properly this time. Let it sit on your tongue. Feel it warm you from inside." His eyes held hers, compelling, stripping away her protests. "For me? Thoda sa hi?" The blend of English and Hindi, the intimate request, felt like another layer of pressure, a demand disguised as coaxing.

"Lekin sir... galti ho gayi toh?" she whispered, the Bengali thick with apprehension. "Mujhe chakkar aa sakta hai..." The thought of dizziness, of losing control in front of him, was terrifying.

Armaan’s smile was a blade in the candlelight. "Chakkar?" he scoffed softly. "Nonsense, Chaitali. Itna thoda sa? Dekho..." He lifted her glass, his fingers brushing hers, sending a spark through her damp palm. He guided the rim to her lips. "Bas ek chutki. Like this." His voice dropped to a velvet murmur, blending Hindi with intimate English. "Let it touch your tongue... hold it... feel the warmth spread. Like sunshine inside, haan? Trust me." The pressure of the cool crystal against her lower lip was inescapable. "For me, Chaitali. Just this sip." His gaze, dark and unblinking, pinned her, stripping away resistance.

Chaitali closed her eyes, the familiar Rabindra Sangeet melody twisting into a dissonant hum. She parted her lips slightly, the sharp, peaty aroma flooding her senses again. She took the smallest sip, letting the liquid pool on her tongue as instructed. It burned, but differently this time – a slow, insidious heat that coated her mouth instead of exploding. She held it, the fire morphing into a strange, spreading numbness that tingled across her palate. She swallowed. The warmth bloomed instantly in her stomach, a slow, heavy wave radiating outward, loosening the tight knot of dread that had clenched her core all evening. "Haan... thoda... garam lagta hai," she breathed, her voice already softer, the Bengali lilt more fluid. Her fingers, still resting near the glass, felt curiously distant.

Armaan watched the transformation unfold with predatory satisfaction. The rigid line of her shoulders softened, melting into the plush velvet of the booth. A faint flush, deeper than before, crept up from the base of her throat, staining the dusky skin above the high dbang of her pallu. Her dark eyes, wide with apprehension moments ago, now held a dazed, unfocused quality. She blinked slowly, her thick lashes fluttering like moth wings against her cheeks. "See?" he murmured, his voice a low purr vibrating in the intimate space. "Achha lag raha hai na? Thoda... light?" He nudged her glass again, the amber liquid catching the flickering candlelight. "Ab finish it. Ek ghoont aur. Bas."  His command was velvet-wrapped steel.

Chaitali lifted the heavy crystal tumbler, her movements slower, less precise. The sharp, medicinal scent still stung her nostrils, but the memory of that spreading warmth, the loosening of the knot inside her chest, overrode the instinctive recoil. She took another sip, larger this time, letting the whisky burn a familiar path down her throat. The heat bloomed more intensely in her stomach, radiating outwards in slow, viscous waves that seeped into her limbs. A strange lightness filled her head, a pleasant buzzing that muffled the clatter of plates and the Rabindra Sangeet. "Haan... haan, sir," she breathed, her voice thicker, the Bengali lilt softer, slurring slightly at the edges. "Garami... spread ho rahi hai." Her fingers traced the condensation on the glass, feeling the cool slickness against her suddenly overheated skin. She took another sip, almost mechanically now, drawn to the deceptive warmth chasing the lingering unease. The glass felt lighter, the liquid disappearing faster. She tilted it back, draining the last fiery drops. A shudder ran through her, not entirely unpleasant, as the final wave of heat settled low in her belly, a heavy, insistent glow.

Armaan watched the empty glass tremble slightly in her hand before she clumsily set it down. Her pallu over the right shoulder had slipped further, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone and the smooth, dusky skin of her shoulder where the silk gaped. The flush had deepened, spreading down her chest, visible even in the dim candlelight above the high neckline of the blouse that wasn't there. Her eyes, dark pools, held a dazed vacancy, the confusion replaced by a hazy surrender. "Good girl," he murmured, the English words low and intimate. He refilled her glass without asking, the amber liquid splashing against the crystal. "Ab thoda relax karo, Chaitali. Feel it? Sab tension... melt ho raha hai?" He leaned closer, his knee brushing hers under the table. The contact sent a jolt through her whisky-numbed senses, a sharp counterpoint to the pervasive warmth. She flinched, a small gasp escaping her lips, but didn't pull away. Her gaze drifted to the newly filled glass, the liquid shimmering like molten gold.

"Sir... main... thoda..." she began, her Bengali slurring, thick as honey. She gestured vaguely towards her head, her fingers clumsy. "Halka sa... chakkar..." The room seemed to tilt gently, the flickering candle flames stretching into blurred streaks. The comforting scent of mustard fish was a distant memory, drowned entirely by the sharp taste of whisky and the cloying sweetness of Armaan's expensive aftershave, which now smelled oppressively close. Her stomach, a vessel of liquid fire, churned uneasily, the warmth turning heavy, almost nauseating.  "Bas ab... nahi pi sakti," she managed, her voice thick and distant, even to her own ears.

Armaan’s smile didn’t waver. He leaned in, his breath warm against her flushed cheek, a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. "Chakkar achha hai, Chaitali," he murmured, the Hindi smooth, intimate. "Means it’s working. Feel it? Sab tightness... gone?" "See? Soft... relaxed. Ab thoda aur... for courage." He nudged the refilled glass towards her lips, the crystal rim cool against her burning skin. "Ek sip. For me. Then we eat, haan?" The promise of food felt hollow, a distant lure in the fog.

Chaitali’s fingers trembled as they closed around the glass. The world tilted – the flickering candle flames stretched into smears of light, the muted Rabindra Sangeet warped into a discordant hum. The whisky’s heat was a heavy, liquid stone in her belly, radiating a strange lethargy through her limbs. "Sir... please..." she whispered, the Bengali thick, slurred. "Mujhe... sach mein... bukhar sa lag raha hai..." Her tongue felt thick, clumsy. She took a small, desperate sip, the fire reigniting briefly before dissolving into the pervasive numbness. The glass slipped slightly in her damp grip, amber liquid sloshing precariously close to the rim.

Armaan seized the moment, shifting his weight on the plush velvet. His thigh pressed firmly against hers under the table. His hand closed over hers on the glass, his fingers cool and strong, trapping her trembling ones. "Shhh, Chaitali," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple, the scent of peat and sandalwood overwhelming. "Almost done. Bas ek do ghoont aur. Look at me." His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a mockery of comfort. "For courage, haan? Tumhari aankhon mein... ek alag si chamak aa rahi hai." His gaze, intense and unblinking, held hers as he tilted the glass towards her lips. "Chalo. Sip." The crystal rim pressed insistently against her mouth.

"Nahi... sir... please..." Chaitali whimpered, the Bengali thick and slurred. The whisky’s heat was a leaden weight low in her belly, radiating waves of queasy lethargy. Her vision swam – Armaan’s face blurred, the sharp angles softening into smudged shadows. The Rabindra Sangeet twisted into a dissonant drone. She tried to turn her head away, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hand. The cool crystal scbangd her lower lip. "Ek sip," he commanded, his voice dropping to a velvet-coated threat. "Bas." Helpless, she parted her lips. The fiery liquid trickled onto her tongue, coating it in numb bitterness. She choked, swallowing convulsively, the burn flaring anew in her throat and chest. Tears welled, hot and stinging, blurring the candlelight into fractured stars. "Thik hai... ho gaya..." she gasped, her voice raw, a tear escaping to trace a hot path down her flushed cheek.

Armaan didn’t relent. His thigh pressed harder against hers, a solid, immovable presence pinning her in the velvet booth. His free hand rose, calloused fingertips brushing away the tear track with startling intimacy. "Shabash," he murmured, the Hindi praise laced with condescension. "Ab ek aur. Last one." He tilted the glass again, forcing another sip past her trembling lips. This time, the whisky barely registered as fire; it was thick, medicinal sludge sliding down her throat, settling heavily onto the churning pool in her stomach. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, the restaurant tilting violently. Her pallu slipped some more from her covered right shoulder. She slumped back against the booth, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "Sir... mujhe... sach mein..." she whispered, the words dissolving into a thick, incoherent mumble.

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. The sudden proximity, the hot breath, the scent of whisky and sandalwood – it all blurred into a single, overwhelming sensation. "Feel it?" he breathed in English, his voice vibrating low. "Sab kuch... soft ho gaya? Like floating?" His hand, still trapping hers on the table, slid upwards, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive inner skin of her wrist. The touch sent jolts of confused electricity through her whisky-numbed arm, conflicting violently with the nausea churning her gut. "Tumhari skin... kitni garam hai," he observed, his fingers drifting higher, skimming the damp silk of her pallu.

Chaitali whimpered, a soft, involuntary sound muffled by the thick fog in her head. The room tilted violently again, the candle flames stretching into wavering ribbons of light. His thumb pressed harder against her pulse point, the pressure anchoring her in the dizzying spin. "Sir... mujhe... sach mein..." she slurred, her Bengali dissolving into a thick whisper. "Chakkar... bohot..." Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, fluttering shut for seconds at a time. The warmth radiating from his thigh against hers was a solid, oppressive heat, contrasting sharply with the cool silk slipping further off her shoulder.

His fingers slid higher beneath the loose dbang of her pallu, tracing the damp skin along her collarbone. "Chakkar achha hai," he murmured in Hindi, his breath hot. "Means you're letting go. Feel how soft?" His touch lingered on the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse hammered erratically against his fingertip. "Tumhari skin... kitni garam hai," he repeated, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper. "Like silk dipped in sunshine." He leaned closer, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of her ear. "Relax, Chaitali. Bas feel karo..." His other hand, still trapping hers on the table, slid slowly upwards, his fingers intertwining with hers in a mockery of tenderness. The rough pad of his thumb stroked the soft skin between her knuckles, sending confusing shivers through her whisky-numbed arm.

The restaurant tilted violently again. Chaitali gasped, her free hand instinctively clutching the edge of the table. The world dissolved into smears of candlelight and shadow. His thigh pressed harder against hers under the table, a solid, immovable heat anchoring her swaying body. "Sir..." she slurred, the Bengali thick and clumsy. "Mujhe... sach mein... bukhar..." The heat wasn't just inside her now; it radiated from his touch, seeping into her skin where his fingers explored the exposed curve of her shoulder. A choked whimper escaped her lips, drowned by the distorted Rabindra Sangeet. She felt untethered, adrift in a sea of warmth and nausea, the pressure of his thigh and the insistent stroke of his thumb the only fixed points in the spinning room.

"Bukhar nahi, Chaitali," he murmured, his Hindi smooth as silk. "Freedom hai yeh." His fingers traced the damp silk of her pallu where it pooled near her collarbone, then dipped lower, skimming the skin beneath. The pad of his thumb brushed the delicate hollow at the base of her throat. "Feel?" he breathed in English, his voice a low thrum that resonated deep in her whisky-fogged bones. "Sab tightness... gone? Like floating?" His other hand tightened its grip on hers, fingers interlacing possessively. The rough texture of his skin scbangd against her knuckles, sending confusing shivers up her numb arm – a sharp counterpoint to the heavy lethargy weighing down her limbs. His thumb pressed harder into her pulse point, a rhythmic pressure that seemed to echo the frantic drumming in her ears.

His gaze sharpened, finally settling on the unusual dbang of her pallu – folded thickly over both shoulders, concealing her chest entirely. "Yeh pallu ka naya style hai kya?" he asked casually, his Hindi laced with false lightness. "Dono kandhon par? Thoda... unusual lagta hai." He tugged gently at the silk near her right shoulder. "Chalo, dikhao mujhe tumhari blouse. Kaisi pehni hai aaj? Something special for me?" His smile was predatory, anticipating the thin polyester blouse straining across her curves. His fingers slid beneath the silk fold, seeking the expected fabric.

Chaitali jerked back instinctively, her whisky-slowed reflexes clumsy. "Nahi... sir!" she gasped, her Bengali thick with panic. His fingers brushed not polyester, but the sturdy elastic band and textured lace of a bra strap. "Yeh... yeh blouse nahi hai!" she stammered, trying to slap his probing hand away, her palm connecting weakly with his wrist. The movement dislodged the pallu further, revealing a glimpse of dusky skin of the shoulder, the bra strap visible."Aapne bola tha... dress..." The memory of his text – "Casual chic" – twisted into a cruel joke.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan froze, his predatory smirk vanishing, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. "Blouse nahi?" he echoed in Hindi, his voice sharp. His gaze locked onto the exposed strap, the unexpected texture under his fingertips. "Toh phir yeh kya hai? " His eyes narrowed, scanning the thickly dbangd pallu concealing her chest. The raw intimacy of the undergarment, exposed by her clumsy evasion, sent a jolt of illicit thrill through him – hotter than the whisky. "Dikhao," he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, insistent growl. "Show me what you wore." His hand darted forward again, not towards the strap, but towards the fold of silk at her shoulder, intent on ripping the veil away.

Chaitali recoiled, slapping his wrist with more force this time, the sharp smack echoing in the booth. "Chhiye! Hands off!" she hissed in Bengali, the vernacular sharp and defensive. Her vision swam violently, the whisky haze amplifying her panic. She clutched the pallu tighter, her knuckles white against the dusky silk. "Aapne bola casual chic... dress!" Her voice trembled, thick with alcohol and indignation. "Maine pehna... pehna..." Words failed her.

Armaan leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. The surprise had evaporated, replaced by a predatory gleam. "Dress?" he echoed, his Hindi smooth, mocking. "Toh dikhao na! Tumhari figure... covered like this?" His gaze raked the thick folds. "Cheating kar rahi ho, Chaitali. Hiding?" He gestured dismissively. "Yeh pallu... itna thick? Kya chhupa rahi ho?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Show me. Bas ek jhalak." His hand hovered near the silk, fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Sir... yeh inappropriate hai," she stammered in Bengali, clutching the pallu tighter. The room tilted, candlelight smearing into streaks. "Maine... respectable dress pehna hai..." She could feel the bra strap digging into her shoulder where his touch had lingered, a stark reminder beneath the silk shield.

Armaan leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Respectable? Hiding that body?" His Hindi dripped mockery. "Dikhao na, Chaitali. Tumhari figure deserves appreciation." His fingers brushed the silk fold near her collarbone, tracing the damp edge. "Bas ek jhalak... prove karo tum modern ho." His thigh pressed harder against hers, a solid, immovable anchor in the dizzying spin.

Just then, a waiter materialized beside their booth, balancing steaming plates. The sudden intrusion shattered the suffocating tension. "Sir, ma'am, your order," he announced in accented English, placing down a clay pot of shorshe ilish, its pungent mustard aroma cutting through the whisky haze. Golden luchis followed, puffing steam beside cholar dal speckled with coconut and steamed rice. The fragrant assault – earthy cumin, sharp green chilies, the rich tang of tamarind in the aloo posto – momentarily overwhelmed Chaitali's senses. She inhaled sharply, the familiar scents piercing her whisky fog like an anchor.

Armaan jerked back, his predatory focus broken. He forced a charming smile for the waiter. "Bahut shukriya," he said smoothly in Hindi, though his eyes flickered with irritation. As the waiter retreated, Armaan gestured expansively at the spread. "See, Chaitali? Authentic. Just like home, na?" His tone was light, but his gaze remained fixed on her pallu.

The sudden burst of aroma – sharp mustard oil, earthy hilsa, the comforting sweetness of cholar dal – momentarily anchored Chaitali. She inhaled deeply, the familiar scents slicing through the whisky-induced haze. Her stomach churned violently, torn between nausea and a primal hunger. "Haan... smells good," she mumbled in Bengali, her voice thick. She instinctively reached for a luchi, its golden surface steaming. The crisp, fried texture felt grounding against her trembling fingers.

Ignoring the fork beside her plate, Chaitali tore the luchi apart with her hands. The soft, yielding interior was warm and comforting. She scooped up a chunk of shorshe ilish, the pungent mustard sauce coating her fingers. Bringing it to her lips, she ate ravenously, almost desperately. The rich, oily fish, the sharp bite of mustard seeds, the familiar tang – it was a lifeline thrown to her drowning senses. "Aah... khub bhalo," she sighed involuntarily, Bengali spilling out as she sucked the sauce from her thumb, momentarily forgetting Armaan’s presence. Her pallu slipped further down her arm as she leaned over the plate, her focus entirely on the food, her movements urgent and unselfconscious.

Armaan watched, transfixed. Her thick fingers moved with surprising dexterity, shredding fish, pinching rice, mopping up thick cholar dal. A stray grain clung to the corner of her mouth. Her cheeks bulged slightly as she chewed, a faint sheen of sweat reappearing on her brow despite the AC. The raw, primal hunger was mesmerizing. He leaned back, swirling his whisky, his predatory gaze sharpening. "Bhookh lagi thi na, Chaitali?" he murmured in Hindi, his voice low and intimate. "Eating like a starving woman... such appetite."

Chaitali paused, a chunk of ilish halfway to her lips. The Bengali words registered slowly through the fog. "Haan... bohot," she mumbled, swallowing thickly. Her tongue felt coated, clumsy. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing a streak of yellow mustard oil across her dusky skin. The gesture was unthinking, earthy. She tore another luchi, the crisp sound loud in the booth. "Ghar jaisa taste hai," she added softly, almost to herself, her Bengali thick with longing. She scooped up more aloo posto, the soft potato yielding easily.

Armaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze wasn't on her face, but lower – fixed on the rhythmic movement of her jaw, the slight tremor in her plump forearm as she lifted the food. He watched the way the damp silk of her pallu clung to the curve of her shoulder where it had slipped, revealing the sturdy bra strap beneath. "Slow down," he murmured in English, his voice a low thrum. "Enjoy it." His eyes tracked a bead of sweat that escaped her hairline, tracing a path down her temple towards the soft fullness of her jawline. He took a slow sip of his whisky, the ice clinking sharply. "Keep eating. I like watching."  The admission hung thick in the air, mingling with the pungent scent of mustard oil.

Chaitali froze mid-bite, a chunk of ilish dripping sauce onto her plate. The Bengali words registered slowly through the haze: "Dekhna pasand hai?" Her voice was thick, confused. She lowered the food, her fingers sticky with turmeric and oil. A flush crept up her neck, hotter than the whisky burn. His intense stare felt like a physical touch, crawling over her skin where the pallu had slipped. She instinctively tugged the silk higher, covering the exposed bra strap, her knuckles white against the dusky fabric. "Sir... yeh..." she stammered, switching to hesitant Hindi, "...thoda ajeeb hai."  

"Keep eating," he murmured in English, swirling his whisky. "Don’t stop on my account." His thumb traced the rim of his glass, mimicking the path he imagined on her skin. "Tum jab khaati ho... tumhari aankhein band ho jaati hain. Like you’re tasting heaven."

His gaze lingered on her lips, glistening with mustard oil. "That ilish... does it taste like your mother’s?" he murmured in Hindi, leaning closer. "Ya phir... kuch missing hai?" The question was intimate, probing. Chaitali swallowed, the rich fish suddenly heavy in her mouth. She nodded mutely, her fingers trembling as they reached for another luchi. The crisp edge scbangd her knuckle. "Thik hai," she mumbled in Bengali, avoiding his eyes. "Kintu Ma-er moton noy." The admission felt raw, exposing a vulnerability deeper than her exposed shoulder. She tore the bread fiercely, crumbs scattering like fallen stars on the dark tablecloth.

Armaan’s smile was razor-thin. "Maybe," he breathed in English, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper that vibrated in her whisky-fogged ear, "some flavours need... new hands to cook them."

Suddenly, Armaan pushed his chair back with a sharp scbang against the tile. "Excuse me, Chaitali," he announced, his Hindi smooth and clipped, the predatory gleam momentarily veiled by practicality. "Loo jaana hai. Thoda time lagega." He stood, towering over the booth, his shadow falling across her plate. "Don’t go anywhere," he added in English, a command disguised as charm, his gaze lingering on the exposed bra strap before flicking to her half-eaten ilish. "Finish that. Looks delicious." He didn’t wait for a reply, weaving through the crowded restaurant with confident strides, the scent of his aftershave briefly overpowering the spices before fading.

Chaitali slumped back against the plush booth, the sudden absence of his oppressive heat creating a vacuum. The whisky’s grip intensified, the room tilting violently. She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, her breath shallow. The thick pallu felt suffocating now, damp and heavy against her flushed skin. With trembling fingers, she fumbled at the silk fold near her shoulder, desperate for air. "Uff... garmi," she gasped aloud in Bengali, her voice thick. She managed to loosen the dbang slightly, exposing more dusky skin and the sturdy lace edge of her bra strap. Cool air whispered against the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat, a fleeting relief before the nausea surged again. She pressed a damp palm to her forehead, the world dissolving into smears of candlelight and blurred patrons.

Armaan strode past crowded tables, the din of laughter and clinking glasses fading into a dull roar. The men's room door swung shut behind him, muffling the chaos. Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights glared off white tiles. He unzipped his linen trousers with practiced ease, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. A low groan escaped him as the stream hit the porcelain, echoing loudly in the tiled space. "Ahhh... finally," he muttered in Hindi, eyes closed momentarily, the whisky’s burn momentarily easing. His reflection in the mirror above the sink was sharp – predatory eyes, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He pictured Chaitali alone at the table, vulnerable, her pallu slipping. "Kali kaluti... abhi toh shuru hua hai," he whispered to his reflection, the crude Hindi words a private thrill. He shook himself off, the zipper rasping shut. "Patience," he murmured in English, adjusting his collar. "Slow feast."

He splashed cold water on his face, droplets tracing his jawline, before turning back towards the door.

The harsh fluorescents of the restroom gave way to the restaurant's dim, amber glow. Armaan navigated the crowded space, his gaze instantly locking onto their secluded booth. Chaitali sat slumped against the plush leather, her head lolling slightly to one side. The remnants of her meal lay scattered before her – fish bones gleaming with oil, shreds of luchi clinging to the plate, the clay pot of shorshe ilish scbangd nearly clean. Her pallu had slipped completely off one shoulder.. The sturdy, sensible bra was fully exposed now, its textured lace stark against the dusky expanse of her skin, damp with sweat that caught the candlelight. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rhythmic. The raw, unguarded exhaustion in her posture was complete. She hadn't just finished her meal; she had been consumed by it, then conquered by the whisky.

He slid into the booth beside her, the leather creaking. The predatory focus sharpened, honed by her vulnerability. He leaned close, his sandalwood aftershave cutting through the lingering spices. "Chaitali?" he murmured in Hindi, his voice low and intimate. "Thoda dessert khayegi? Something sweet to finish?" His hand rested lightly on her bare shoulder, his thumb tracing the edge of her bra strap. The skin was warm, yielding beneath his touch. "Bahut tired lag rahi ho... sweets energy dete hain." His English followed, smooth as silk. "They have mishti doi... thick, creamy. Just like Kolkata."

Chaitali stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. The world swam—candlelight smeared into golden streaks, Armaan's face hovering too close. His thumb moved in slow circles on her shoulder, the friction sending confusing shivers through her whisky-heavy limbs. "Mishti doi?" she mumbled in Bengali, the words thick and clumsy. A phantom sweetness bloomed on her tongue, the memory clashing violently with the oily residue of fish coating her palate. Her stomach lurched. "Nahi... pet bhar gaya," she protested weakly, trying to pull away, but his grip on her shoulder tightened subtly, anchoring her.

Armaan chuckled, a low rumble vibrating in the confined space. "Pet bhar gaya?" he echoed in Hindi, his tone mocking yet intimate. He leaned closer, his breath warm and whisky-scented against her ear. "Thoda sa... bas ek spoonful? For me?" His English followed, a velvet command. "Open your mouth, Chaitali. Let me see if you taste as sweet as the doi."

Chaitali flinched, the proximity overwhelming. His thumb pressed harder into the muscle of her shoulder, a possessive anchor. "Nahi... please," she slurred in Bengali, turning her face away, the movement causing a fresh wave of dizziness. The bra strap dug sharply into her exposed skin where his grip held her immobile.

Armaan’s smile vanished, replaced by cold calculation. He withdrew his hand abruptly, the sudden absence leaving her skin chilled despite the heat. "Fine," he snapped in Hindi, the charm evaporating. "Waiter! Bill lao!" His voice cut through the ambient noise, sharp and impatient. He pulled out his wallet, thick with notes, barely glancing at the slip the waiter presented. "Haan, theek hai," he muttered, tossing down a wad of cash far exceeding the amount. He commanded Chaitali in English, already sliding out of the booth. "Time to go. Can you walk?"

Chaitali blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The whisky’s grip tightened as she clumsily gathered her slipping pallu, fingers fumbling with the silk. "Haan... haan, chal sakti hoon," she mumbled in Bengali, pushing herself upright. Her legs felt unsteady, the floor tilting slightly as she stood. The cool air from the AC hit her sweat-dampened shoulder where the bra strap still lay exposed, raising gooseblesh. She swayed, catching herself on the edge of the table, the lingering scent of mustard oil and fish suddenly nauseating.

Armaan’s hand clamped firmly around her upper arm, steering her through the crowded restaurant. His grip was possessive, impersonal, his linen sleeve rough against hern. "Dheere chalo," he instructed sharply in Hindi, navigating past laughing groups. "Gaadi mein aaram kar lena." The promise of rest in the car felt hollow. Chaitali focused on placing one foot in front of the other, the click of her heels echoing dully in her fogged mind. The cool night air outside hit her face like a slap, thick with exhaust fumes and the distant scent of rain. She inhaled deeply, the sharpness cutting through the whisky haze just enough to make her shiver.

A gust of wind whipped across the parking lot, slicing through the humid Gurgaon night. Chaitali gasped as the sudden chill bit into her sweat-dampened skin. Instinctively, she glanced down – the silk pallu had slipped completely off her shoulder again, pooling loosely around her elbow. The sturdy lace of her bra cup was fully exposed now, stark against the dusky swell of her breast catching the harsh glare of a parking lot floodlight. A wave of mortification washed over her, colder than the wind. "Arre baba" she whispered frantically in Bengali, her thick fingers scrambling to gather the slippery silk. With clumsy urgency, she hauled the pallu back up, dbanging it hastily over both shoulders and pulling a generous fold over her head, the fabric forming a modest cowl that shadowed her flushed face – a gesture instinctively borrowed from the shy dignity of a newlywed bride shielding herself from unfamiliar eyes.

Armaan watched her frantic adjustments from beside the sleek black sedan, his car keys dangling loosely from one finger. A low chuckle escaped him, sharp and amused in the quiet darkness. "Kya hua, Chaitali?" he called out in Hindi, his voice laced with mock concern. "Thand lag rahi hai? Ya phir... sharam aa rahi hai?" He leaned casually against the car door, his eyes gleaming with predatory amusement in the dim light. "Covering up like a village bride now? After all that... appetite?" The English word dripped with insinuation. He unlocked the car with a soft chirp, the headlights flashing briefly, illuminating her hunched figure momentarily before plunging her back into shadow. "Get in," he commanded flatly in English, gesturing towards the passenger seat. "Jaldi karo. AC chalu kar deta hoon."

Just then, a sharp male voice cut through the parking lot's low hum. "Armaan! Yaar, kahan chhupa hua tha?" The familiar, slightly nasal tone sliced through the tension. Armaan froze, his hand still on the car door handle. He turned slowly, a practiced mask of casual surprise sliding over his features. In the deep shadows cast by a towering SUV parked nearby, Ritesh emerged. His old college friend looked incongruous here – slightly rumpled shirt, hair thinning, a paunch straining against his belt. A grin spread across Ritesh's face, revealing slightly crooked teeth. "Sala, office ke baad bhi suit-boot mein?" he teased in Hindi, stepping closer, his eyes flickering past Armaan to take in Chaitali's hunched form clutching her pallu. "Kya scene hai? Party kar rahe the?"

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the car keys, the metal biting into his palm. The interruption was jarring, unwelcome. He forced a chuckle, the sound hollow in the cool night air. "Bas yaar, dinner tha. Professional meeting." His Hindi was clipped, dismissive. He subtly shifted his body, attempting to block Ritesh’s view of Chaitali, who stood frozen, her face still shadowed by the dbangd silk, the scent of coconut oil and whisky clinging to her like a shroud. Ritesh’s gaze, however, lingered, curiosity piqued by her obscured presence and Armaan’s uncharacteristic stiffness. "Professional?" Ritesh snorted, switching to Hinglish. "Tera yeh professional meeting... thoda tipsy lag rahi hai, bro?" He gestured vaguely towards Chaitali’s swaying silhouette. "Theek hai na, madam?"

Armaan’s jaw tightened. The predatory ease vanished, replaced by a cold irritation. He knew Ritesh – persistent, gossipy, impossible to shake off easily. With a curt sigh, he stepped aside, revealing Chaitali fully. Her pallu was pulled tightly over her head like a shroud, shadowing her face, her arms crossed protectively over her chest despite the heavy silk. "Meet Chaitali Ghosh," Armaan introduced flatly in English, the formality stark. "New CRM at Vatika." He turned to Chaitali, his voice dropping into a low, insistent murmur laced with Hindi. "Chaitali, yeh Ritesh hai. Mera college friend." The introduction felt like an exposure, stripping away the intimate darkness of the booth.

Chaitali flinched at the sudden spotlight. The wind whipped strands of hair loose from her pallu, stinging her flushed cheeks. She forced her head up, meeting Ritesh’s curious gaze. Her eyes were glazed, pupils dilated from whisky and exhaustion. "Namaskar," she mumbled in Bengali, the greeting thick and slurred. She instinctively clutched the pallu tighter under her chin, the damp silk sticking to her collarbone. The sturdy lace edge of her bra pressed uncomfortably against her skin beneath the fabric. Ritesh grinned wider, oblivious to the tension. "Arre wah! Bengali madam!" he exclaimed in enthusiastic Hinglish, stepping closer. "Kaise ho? Armaan ne toh kabhi bataya nahi office mein itni sundar colleague hai!" His gaze lingered appreciatively on her dbangd figure, missing the tremor in her hands.

He thrust his hand out. "Ritesh Sharma. Armaan ka dost." Chaitali hesitated, her fingers sticky with residual turmeric oil and sweat. Slowly, reluctantly, she uncurled one hand from its protective grip on her pallu and extended it. Ritesh clasped her hand firmly, his grip warm and slightly damp. He didn't release it immediately. Instead, his thumb slid unconsciously over the pronounced ridge of her knuckles, his eyes dropping to her wrist. There, stark against her dusky skin, lay the traditional symbols: the thick, red-and-white bangles. His grin softened into genuine curiosity. "Ye kya hai?" he asked, his Hindi gentle, tilting her hand slightly to get a better look at the ornaments glinting under the parking lot lights. "Bahut sundar laga... par pehli baar dekha hai." His thumb lingered near the cool of the pola, feeling its texture..

Chaitali flinched at the prolonged contact, the whisky amplifying her discomfort. She tried to pull her hand back, but Ritesh held on with friendly insistence. "Shakha Pola," she mumbled in Bengali, her voice thick. "Bengali shaadi ki chinh hai." She tugged harder, her palm slick. Ritesh finally released her, chuckling softly. "Arre wah! Married?" he exclaimed in Hinglish, his eyes flicking briefly towards Armaan, whose expression had hardened into stone. "Armaan, tune toh kaha tha professional meeting?" Chaitali quickly hid her hand back under the folds of her pallu, the cool silk a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her cheeks. The Shakha Pola felt suddenly heavy, a reminder of a life far removed from this humid parking lot and predatory eyes.

Ritesh grinned wider, nudging Armaan playfully. "Yaar, tu toh kamaal kar raha hai!" he teased in Hindi, his tone thick with insinuation. "Mature married lady ko Cyber Hub mein dinner? Professional curiosity ka level hi alag hai tera!" He winked broadly at Chaitali, whose blush deepened to a dusky crimson visible even in the shadows. "Madam ko toh tumne bahut blush karwa diya!" Armaan’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath his skin. He forced a short, humourless laugh. "Bas Ritesh, tu bhi na..." he muttered dismissively in Hinglish, "Chill kar. CRM discuss kar rahe the bas." But his eyes, cold and watchful, tracked Ritesh’s lingering gaze on Chaitali’s dbangd figure, noting the undisguised curiosity mixed with amusement.

Chaitali stood frozen, the silk pallu pulled taut over her head like a shield. Ritesh’s teasing words echoed in her whisky-fogged mind – mature married lady, blush. Mortification burned hotter than the alcohol in her veins. She could feel Ritesh’s eyes dissecting her silhouette beneath the heavy silk, lingering on the exposed bra strap at her shoulder where the pallu had slipped again. "Sir... main gaadi mein baith sakti hoon?" she whispered hoarsely in Bengali, her voice trembling. The cool night air did nothing to soothe the prickling heat spreading across her chest and neck. Her Shakha Pola felt like a cold, accusing weight against her wrist.

Ritesh chuckled, leaning closer to Armaan with a conspiratorial grin. "Yaar, dekha tune?" he murmured in Hindi, nodding towards Chaitali’s hunched form. "Shaadi-shuda aurat ko itna embarrass kar diya tune? Poori kali kali ho gayi blush se!" He switched to Hinglish, raising his voice slightly for her benefit, "Arre madam, relax karo! Hamare Armaan ka style hi aisa hai – sharks ko bhi patane wala!" His laughter boomed, sharp and intrusive in the quiet parking lot. Armaan forced a tight smile, his knuckles white around the car keys. He saw Ritesh’s gaze flicker back to Chaitali – not just amused now, but genuinely intrigued by her flustered dignity, the way her damp sari clung to the heavy curve of her hip as she shifted uncomfortably.

Armaan’s reply was clipped, layered with warning. "Bas Ritesh, bakchodi band kar," he hissed in Hindi, stepping deliberately between his friend and Chaitali’s trembling silhouette. "Gaadi mein baith," he commanded her in English, jerking his chin towards the open passenger door. Chaitali stumbled forward gratefully, the cool leather upholstery hitting the backs of her thighs as she sank into the seat. She pulled the pallu tighter, burying her flushed face in the folds, the scent of coconut oil and whisky trapped against her skin. Ritesh watched her retreat, his grin fading into thoughtful appraisal. "Seriously yaar," he murmured, switching back to Hinglish as Armaan moved to shut the door, "Who is she? Full milf material hai... details bata na. Kaise pakda?" His eyes lingered on the shadowed outline of Chaitali’s ample bosom rising and falling rapidly beneath the silk.

Armaan slammed the car door shut harder than necessary, the sharp thud echoing in the parking lot. He turned to Ritesh, his voice low and dangerous. "Tu apna kaam dekh," he growled in Hindi, the charm utterly absent. "Yeh teri fantasy nahi hai." But Ritesh only chuckled, unfazed, leaning closer. "Arre, tension mat le!" he teased, his Hinglish dripping with insinuation. "Mature aurat ko handle karna teri expertise hai, I know. Par uska blush... dekha tune? Kaliyan phoot rahi thi uske gaal pe!" He nudged Armaan’s arm conspiratorially. "Shaadi ke baad bhi itni sharm? Rare hai yaar." Armaan’s gaze flickered to the car window, catching Chaitali’s hunched profile behind the tinted glass. He saw Ritesh’s genuine fascination – not just crude interest, but a sharp curiosity about the woman beneath the sari and the Shakha Pola.

Inside the stifling car, Chaitali pressed her burning cheek against the cool leather seat. Ritesh’s booming laugh penetrated the glass – "Professional meeting, haan! Tu toh serial killer lagta hai, Armaan!" – followed by Armaan’s sharp retort in Hindi she couldn’t fully catch. Each word was a needle prick. Her Shakha Pola felt like ice against her feverish wrist. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image flashed: Ritesh’s amused eyes dissecting her exposed bra strap, his thumb brushing her Shakha. Mortification warred with the whisky’s lingering warmth, making her stomach churn. The scent of Armaan’s sandalwood aftershave mixed with her own sweat trapped under the silk pallu, thick and cloying. She pulled the fabric tighter, desperate to vanish, the damp silk sticking uncomfortably to the sweat-slicked skin of her neck and collarbone.

Outside, Armaan leaned against the car, his posture deceptively relaxed. Ritesh nudged him, grinning. "Yaar, seriously," he pressed in Hinglish, voice lowered but carrying, "Shaadi-shuda Bengali milf ko date pe le aaya? Full guts!" He chuckled, nodding towards the tinted window where Chaitali’s shadowy form hunched. "Dekh tune uska face jab maine shakha-pola dekha? " Armaan’s jaw tightened, but a flicker of cold amusement touched his lips. "Chutiya hai kya?" he shot back, his Hindi sharp. "Discussing property leads tha. Uska husband NRI hai, Dubai mein. Connections useful ho sakte hain." The lie was smooth, transactional. Yet, he watched Ritesh’s gaze linger on the car window, noting the undisguised curiosity – less crude now, more intrigued by the flustered dignity she radiated even in retreat.

Ritesh snorted, unconvinced. "Property leads?" He mimed quotation marks, switching fluidly to Hinglish. "Tera 'lead' abhi gaadi mein blush kar raha hai, yaar! Poori kali kali ho gayi thi mere comment se." He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Par sahi mein... kaise hai woh? Thick hai na? Solid maal?" Armaan’s knuckles whitened around his keys, the metal biting into his palm. He forced a dismissive shrug. "Bas. Average." But Ritesh caught the slight dilation in Armaan’s pupils, the involuntary glance back at the car. "Average?" Ritesh laughed, a low, knowing rumble. "Tere muh se jhoot bol raha hai, dost. Dekha maine uski back? Saree tight tha... full shape dikh raha tha. Aur woh blush..." He shook his head appreciatively. "Shaadi ke baad bhi itni sharm? Rare hai. Tu pakka kuch khaas plan kar raha hai."

Armaan pushed off the car door, the movement abrupt. "Chal, ab main jaata hoon," he stated flatly in Hindi, the charm utterly absent. "Tu apna kaam dekh." He moved towards the driver’s side, but Ritesh blocked his path slightly, his grin widening. "Arre, tension mat le! Bas ek baat bata... seriously interested hai kya tu?" His eyes gleamed with crude curiosity. "Full milf hai woh, yaar. Experience wali. Kya plan hai?" Armaan paused, the cool night air chilling the sweat at his temples. He met Ritesh’s gaze, a slow, predatory smirk finally touching his lips. "Kal bataunga," he murmured in Hinglish, the promise loaded and dark. "Abhi nahi. She’s... waiting." He jerked his chin towards the impatient silhouette behind the tinted glass. Ritesh chuckled, stepping back with a mock salute. "Sahi hai, player! Kal full details chahiye. No filter."

[Mohit.Kumar]

Armaan slid into the driver’s seat, the leather sighing under his weight. The car’s interior was thick with trapped heat and Chaitali’s scent – coconut oil, whisky, and the faint, intimate musk of her sweat beneath the silk pallu still shrouding her head. He slammed the door shut, the sound a sharp punctuation. Without a word, he jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floorboards, a low growl that mirrored the tension coiling in his gut. He didn’t look at Chaitali, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he reversed sharply, the tires screeching against the concrete. The headlights swept over Ritesh, still standing there grinning, his silhouette shrinking rapidly in the rearview mirror until swallowed by the darkness.

Chaitali flinched at the sudden acceleration, pressing herself deeper into the passenger seat. The cool leather was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her cheeks and neck. She dared a glance sideways. Armaan’s profile was sharp, unreadable in the dashboard’s green glow, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thump of her own frantic heartbeat against her ribs. The Shakha Pola felt like a cold, heavy shackle on her wrist. She swallowed, her throat dry and tight. "Sir main" Her voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, thick with Bengali cadence and shame. "Mujhe sorry. Woh shakha-pola usne dekha" She trailed off, unable to articulate the crushing embarrassment, the violation of Ritesh’s touch on her marriage symbols.

Armaan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking. He didn’t turn his head. "Sorry? Kyun?"  He accelerated sharply, weaving through sparse Gurgaon traffic. "Ritesh gadha hai, par tune usko aur curious kar diya. Shaadi-shuda aurat ko dekho, kitni sharmati hai." His tone was laced with a cold amusement. "Par sir woh" she stammered, fingers nervously smoothing the silk over her thigh, feeling the heavy curve beneath. "Mujhe laga professional meeting tha."

He snorted, a harsh sound in the confined space. "Professional?" He finally glanced sideways, his eyes raking her shrouded form. "Teri Shakha-Pola professional hai? Tu office mein pehenti hai?" His Hinglish was sharp, dismissive. "Ritesh ko laga main tera affair kar raha hoon. Ab woh gossip karega. Sabko pata chalega teri 'professional curiosity'." Chaitali shrank back, the damp silk clinging to her collarbone. The Shakha Pola felt like a brand. "Lekin sir" she whispered, the scent of whisky and her own rising panic thick in her nostrils. "Maine kuch nahi kaha"

He cut her off, accelerating through a yellow light. "Chup. Damage control karna padega." His knuckles whitened on the wheel. "Kal office mein sabko clear kar denge – pure professional tha. CRM reports discuss kiye. Property leads." He paused, voice dropping to a cold murmur. "Tu bhi yehi bolegi. Agar kisi ne Ritesh ka naam liya" The unspoken threat hung, heavy as the humid night air. Chaitali nodded mutely, her throat tight.

Armaan suddenly swerved onto a deserted service lane, gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine, plunging them into silence. The only sound was Chaitali’s ragged breathing beneath her pallu. He turned fully, the leather seat creaking. "Ek baat clear karni hai," he stated, his Hinglish low and deliberate. "Teri shaadi teri problem hai. Mere saamne hide mat kar." His gaze burned through the silk dbangd over her head. "Woh pallu utaar."

Chaitali froze, the damp silk suddenly suffocating. "Sir please" she whispered, her Bengali accent thick with panic. "Main comfortable nahi" She clutched the fabric tighter, knuckles white against the dark silk. Armaan leaned closer, invading her space. The scent of his sandalwood aftershave mixed dangerously with the trapped heat of her sweat and fear. "Utar," he repeated, the command flat, final. "Abhi." His hand shot out, not towards her face, but towards the silk pooled heavily over her shoulder.

His fingers closed on the pallu’s edge – rough, impatient. "Dekhna hai ki kya chhupa rahi hai itni," he muttered in Hinglish, a predatory curiosity hardening his voice. He yanked. The silk hissed against itself, dragging across her collarbone. Chaitali gasped, instinctively recoiling against the cool leather seatback. The pallu slid, bunching around her elbow, exposing her bare shoulder and the delicate strap of her lace bra beneath – thin, black, startlingly intimate against her dusky skin. The sudden exposure sent a violent shiver through her, goosebumps erupting on her arms despite the car's stifling warmth. "Bas itna hi?" Armaan’s gaze raked the exposed strap, the swell of her breast hinted at beneath the saree dbangd over her chest. "Blouse nahi pehni aaj?" His thumb brushed the lace strap, the touch deliberate, assessing the flimsy barrier. "Sirf yeh?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Kitni bold ho gayi hai tu, Chaitali?"

Chaitali’s breath hitched, trapped in her throat. She tried to pull the pallu back, her fingers clumsy with panic. "Nahi sir please" she stammered, the Bengali lilt thick with desperation. "Office se seedha time nahi mila" The lie sounded feeble even to her own ears. The lace strap dug into her skin where his thumb rested. "Time nahi mila?" Armaan echoed, a cold amusement twisting his lips. "Ya phir kisi aur ke liye taiyar ho rahi thi?" He leaned closer, the sandalwood scent sharp, overwhelming the trapped musk of her sweat and fear. "Dikha ki kitni bold ho."