27-09-2025, 02:59 AM
(This post was last modified: Yesterday, 11:18 PM by Mohit.Kumar. Edited 4 times in total. Edited 4 times in total.)
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.
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.
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