Misc. Erotica The New Receptionist: Mrs. Chaitali Ghosh's 'Orientation' at the new office

[Mohit.Kumar]

This story 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.

The fluorescent lights of Vatika Real Estate's Gurgaon office hummed with a low, persistent buzz, casting harsh shadows on the polished granite reception counter where Chaitali Ghosh fumbled with a stack of property brochures. Her thick-framed spectacles slid down her nose as she bent forward, the strained buttons of her crisp white Vatika shirt pulling taut across the generous swell of her breasts beneath a practical, beige bra. The snug black trousers hugged the wide curve of her hips and the full shelf of her backside, fabric whispering faintly with every shift of her weight as she tried to align the brochures just right. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, dampening a stray wisp of dark hair escaping her neat bun – the air conditioning battling inadequately against the late afternoon heat and the sheer effort of concentration etched on her dusky, earnest face.

 
Near the water cooler, a loose knot of five property brokers – Arjun, Vikram, Rohan, Deepak, and Manish – pretended to discuss client leads while their eyes remained glued to Chaitali’s bent form. Vikram, lean and perpetually smirking, nudged Arjun hard in the ribs. "Yaar Arjun, dekha tune? Saali ka gaand toh dekho, ekdum dhakka maarne wala item hai" he hissed, his voice a low, lewd rasp. "Poori reception desk hilaa degi agar ek baar chad jaaye uspe" He mimed a crude thrusting motion with his hips, drawing muffled snickers from Deepak and Rohan.
 
Arjun, older and paunchy, wrinkled his nose, adjusting his cheap polyester tie. "Haan, gaand toh hai moti… par chehra dekha tune? Kitni buddi lagti hai yaar," he muttered dismissively, swirling the lukewarm water in his plastic cup. "Chashma pehenti hai, aur body bhi… thoda jyada hi healthy lagti hai. Hum jaise young blood ke liye nahi hai." He took a loud slurp, his eyes briefly flicking over Chaitali’s straining shirt buttons before looking away with a bored expression.
 
Nearby, Deepak leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed lower. "Arre yaaron, face toh cover kar lo kisi din… but base? Dekho na uske boobs… shirt ke button toh todne wale hain ekdum" He chuckled darkly, imagining the fabric giving way. "Poori bra bhar ke rakha hai… ekdum doodh ki tanki jaisa. Haath lag jaaye toh daba ke nikal denge." His fingers twitched unconsciously.
 
Rohan, younger and quieter, shifted uncomfortably. The visual of the fabric straining against her full backside, hinting at the underwear beneath, held him captive.
 
Chaitali straightened abruptly, pushing her glasses firmly up the bridge of her nose. A sharp intake of breath pulled her shirt tighter across her chest. "Arre Baba" she exclaimed softly in Bengali, noticing a misplaced brochure. Her hips bumped the counter as she leaned sideways to retrieve it, the movement sending a visible jiggle through her ample curves beneath the taut black trousers. The unintentional display drew a collective, sharp inhalation from the group by the cooler.
 
Deepak’s throat went dry. "Dekho yaar," he whispered hoarsely, "usse chhedne mein kitna maza aayega... ekdum rasgulla jaisi." The image of his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her hips, pulling her back against him, flooded his mind. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her body through the  fabric. "Poori body hilaa denge hum... ek baar mauka mila toh."
 
Manish, usually silent, finally spoke, his voice low and thick. "Chashma utaar ke dekho... woh expressions jab dard hoga na usmein..." He trailed off, picturing Chaitali’s eyes widening behind her smudged lenses, her mouth forming a shocked ‘O’ as unfamiliar hands grabbed her. "Aur haan... kapde faadne mein toh maza hi aa jayega." The thought of buttons popping, fabric tearing to reveal the sturdy bra beneath, sent a jolt through him.
 
Chaitali turned towards the filing cabinet, her wide hips brushing against the drawer handle. The movement pulled her trousers impossibly tighter across the full swell of her backside, the faint outline of her cotton panties becoming momentarily visible beneath the strained fabric.
 
Deepak choked on his water. ".Dekha tune?" he gasped, nudging Vikram hard. "Panties ka line clear dikh raha tha... ekdum thick thighs ke beech mein jam gaya hua." His knuckles whitened around his cup. "Saali ko bend karke wahi se utha lena chahiye... poori garmi niklegi uski chut se."
 
Chaitali hummed softly, oblivious, as she wrestled a jammed drawer. Her bent posture stretched the black trousers into a taut canvas across her hips, the cotton underwear seam digging deep into the cleft, outlining each fleshy curve. A bead of sweat traced the dark hollow at the base of her spine before vanishing beneath the waistband. Rohan’s breath hitched—he could almost smell the humid warmth trapped beneath the fabric.
 
Arjun scowled, swirling his stale water. "Yaar Vikram, seriously? Itna excitement kyun? Dekho na uski kamar... ekdum moti hai," he muttered, pinching his own paunch disdainfully. "Aur yeh chashma... buddhiyon ki tarah lagti hai. Shaadi-shuda aunty hai?" He flicked a dismissive hand toward Chaitali’s straining shirt. "Doodh toh hai, par plastic ki bottle jaisa lagega chhune mein... natural nahi."
 
Beside him, Manish wrinkled his nose as Chaitali bent again, the waistband of her trousers digging into soft flesh. "Skin bhi dekha hai? Ekdum kala kaluta... ghar pe haldi laga ke rakhti hogi," he sneered quietly. "Saand ko chadhaoge toh bhi na chade... bas timepass ke liye thokne layak hai." He mimed a limp thrust, drawing a crude chuckle from Deepak.
 
Vikram’s eyes remained locked on the sweat-damp patch blooming between Chaitali’s shoulder blades. "Teri soch hi choti hai, yaar," he retorted, licking his lips. "Iske jism mein aag hai... dekho na kaise hilti hai har step mein." He watched her hips sway toward the coffee machine, the black fabric straining across each heavy cheek. "Gaand pe haath maarne mein jo sound aayegi... *thapp*... wohi bass bajega poore office mein."
 
Chaitali glanced up, her spectacles catching the fluorescent light as she spotted the group clustered near the water cooler. A warm, smile spread across her face. "Arre, aap logon ko thand paani chahiye?" she called out in her thick Bengali-accented Hindi, her voice carrying a friendly lilt. She walked toward them, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Each step made her hips roll gently, the taut black trousers whispering with the friction of thick thighs rubbing together. She stopped before Vikram, her ample chest rising and falling slightly with the effort.
 
Vikram stiffened, caught off guard by her sudden proximity. The faint scent of sweat mixed with coconut oil hit his nostrils. "Haan... haan, Didi," he stammered, his eyes darting to the damp patch darkening the armpit of her shirt. Chaitali leaned past him to grab a stack of paper cups from the cooler shelf, her breast brushing against his forearm. The unexpected warmth and softness made him flinch. "Aap logon ka meeting ho gaya kya?" she asked cheerfully, oblivious to the tension crackling around her as she handed him a cup.
 
Deepak stepped forward, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "Meeting toh baad mein, Didi," he purred, deliberately crowding her space. "Pehle aapka introduction hona chahiye na? Hum sab brokers hain... aapke naye colleagues."
 
Chaitali beamed, adjusting her slipping glasses. "Arre wah Main Chaitali Ghosh," she chirped, extending a soft, slightly damp hand toward Vikram first. Her forearm brushed against Deepak's chest as she leaned past him, the heat radiating through his  shirt making his breath catch. Vikram took her hand limply, his eyes fixed on the way her shirt gaped slightly between strained buttons, revealing a sliver of beige bra strap and sweat-damp skin. Her palm felt warm and unexpectedly calloused against his smooth fingers.
 
"Kaafi busy lag rahe ho aaj, Didi?" Rohan interjected smoothly, stepping closer on her other side. His thigh pressed against the curve of her hip through the  trouser fabric. He inhaled subtly – the scent of her exertion mingled with faded talcum powder and someg distinctly, densely feminine. "Poora din counter pe khadi rehti ho... pair dard nahi karte?" His gaze dropped meaningfully to her thick ankles straining against her sensible heels.
 
Chaitali laughed,"Arre Baba, kya karein? Naukri hai na" She shifted her weight, the movement causing her trouser seam to bite deeper into the cleft of her backside, momentarily outlining the full, rounded swell of each cheek and the distinct press of her panties' elastic waistband against the soft flesh above it.
 
Deepak's knuckles whitened around his cup. He leaned in, his breath hot near her ear. "Didi ka naam sunke hi dil khush ho gaya... Chaitali... jaise koi rasgulla ka naam ho." His gaze dropped pointedly to her chest. "Doodh peeti ho kya itni sehat ke liye?" He chuckled low, the sound vibrating near her temple.
 
Chaitali giggled, mistaking the crude comment for clumsy concern. "Arre Baba, doodh toh roz peeti hoon" she chirped, patting her stomach unconsciously.  "Ghar se lassi bhi lati hu lunch mein... dekho?" She gestured vaguely toward her desk, utterly oblivious to Vikram's choked cough beside her.
 
Deepak seized the opening, his rough palm unexpectedly settling on the small of her back. "Achha? Lassi? Mujhe bhi pilaogi kya Didi?" His thumb pressed firmly into the dip above her waistband, feeling the warm give of soft flesh beneath damp polyester. The contact lingered too long, his fingers splaying possessively across her lower spine.
 
Chaitali merely beamed, mistaking the invasive touch for clumsy camaraderie. "Haan ji, kal se extra bottle pack karungi" Her hips swayed slightly as she turned toward the cooler, brushing against Vikram's thigh.
 
Vikram seized the moment. "Didi, ek baat puchni thi... aapke ghar kaunse area mein hai?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "Hum brokers ko locality knowledge chahiye hota hai na." He exchanged a loaded glance with Deepak.
 
Chaitali adjusted her slipping glasses, cheeks flushed from the lingering warmth of Deepak's hand on her back. "Arre, Sector 56 mein rehti hoon... Green View Apartments," she chirped, oblivious to Rohan's gaze tracing the sweat-damp outline of her bra strap through the  shirt. "Bas do bedroom flat hai... chota sa, par accha hai"
 
Vikram exchanged a swift, predatory glance with Deepak. Sector 56 was a modest, middle-class enclave – isolated, quiet. Perfect. "Didi, ek suggestion tha," Vikram purred, stepping closer, his polished shoe nudging her worn heel. "Aapko property market ka thoda orientation dena chahiye humlog. Clients ko handle karne mein help milegi." He gestured toward the empty conference room down the hall, its frosted glass door offering a sliver of privacy. "Five minutes? Bas baith ke thoda discuss karenge?"
 
 "Kitna accha socha aapne Bilkul sahi" She beamed, mistaking their predatory focus for professional mentorship. "Chaliye na, meeting room mein?" She gestured eagerly, her wide hips brushing against Deepak as she turned, the fabric of her trousers straining audibly across her backside. The scent of her sweat, warm and musky, intensified in the confined space near the cooler.
 
Chaitali led the way, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm on the marble. Each step emphasized the heavy sway of her hips, the black trousers pulling taut over the full shelf of her buttocks with every shift. Vikram followed close behind, his gaze fixed on the damp patch darkening the seat of her pants where it clung to the deep cleft. He could almost feel the humid heat radiating from her skin, smell the intimate salt-tang mingling with coconut oil. Deepak's knuckles brushed against the small of her back, "accidentally" grazing the elastic waistband of her panties digging into soft flesh. She didn't flinch, humming a tuneless Bengali song, utterly unaware of the five pairs of eyes dissecting her every jiggle and curve.
 
The private meeting room swallowed them whole – cool, sterile air thick with the scent of stale coffee and dust. Chaitali gestured vaguely toward the oval table. "Baithe na sab?" she chirped, her thick Bengali accent softening the Hindi words. As she leaned forward to pull out a chair for Vikram, her strained shirt gaped dangerously between the buttons. Deepak, directly behind her, got an eyeful: the sweat-slicked valley between her heavy breasts straining against the practical beige bra, the damp fabric clinging to the deep under-curve. A low groan escaped Rohan as the taut black trousers stretched impossibly tighter across her wide hips, the fabric whispering obscenely with the movement, outlining the distinct, thick band of her cotton panties riding high.
 
Vikram slid into the chair Chaitali offered, his thigh deliberately brushing against hers as she straightened. "Didi, shaadi ho gayi hai?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk. His gaze lingered on the flushed skin of her neck where a stray curl stuck damply. Chaitali blinked, adjusting her spectacles. "Haan ji, 15 saal ho gaye," she replied warmly, oblivious to the predatory stillness settling over the room.
 
Deepak leaned back, chair creaking. "Patidev kya karte hain?" Chaitali beamed. "Bank manager hain, Sector 14 mein."
 
Rohan snorted softly. Vikram shot him a silencing glare before turning a saccharine smile on Chaitali. "Kitne bacche hain Didi?".
 
Chaitali’s expression softened, warmth spreading across her dusky cheeks. "Ek beta hai. Class 10 mein padhta hai," she murmured, fingers unconsciously tracing the worn gold of her mangalsutra beneath her shirt collar. The mention of her son made her posture soften, hips settling more comfortably against the chair edge, the taut black fabric straining where her thighs met the seat. "Bahut bright hai... maths mein top karta hai," she added proudly, unaware of Deepak's gaze dropping to the pronounced swell of her breast shifting beneath the  white cotton as she breathed.
 
Vikram leaned forward, elbows propped on the polished table. "Patidev ko aapke job ke baare mein kya kehte hain?" His tone was deceptively light, but his knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge. Chaitali shifted, her wide hips causing the chair to groan faintly. "Bank manager hai... samajhdaar aadmi hai," she said, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "Office mein ladkiyon ka kaam... achha nahi samajhte," she admitted softly, fingers twisting the mangalsutra chain tighter.  "Par mujhe zaroorat hai... ghar chalane ke liye," she added, the words catching in her throat.
 
Deepak seized the opening. "Didi ki zaroorat hum bhi samajh sakte hain," he murmured, his chair scbanging closer. His knee pressed deliberately against her thigh beneath the table.
 
"Didi tension mat lo," Deepak said. "Hum sab help karenge... personal training bhi denge." His other hand slid under the table, palm flattening against her knee, fingers inching upward along the inner seam of her trousers.
 
"Kal se hum regular guide karenge,"  "Aap chinta met karo."
 
"Haan Didi, hum sab broker hai na? Humari responsibility hai aapko settle karana." Rohan and Manish exchanged a loaded glance as they stood, chairs scbanging harshly. Chaitali blinked, relief softening the anxious lines around her eyes. "Dhanyavaad bhaiyya," she murmured, adjusting her slipping spectacles. "Aap logon ne dil ko thandak di." She rose, the black trousers whispering tautly across her wide hips as she smoothed her shirt, unaware of Deepak’s lingering gaze tracing the sweat-darkened outline of her bra beneath the  fabric.
 
Vikram clapped Arjun’s shoulder too hard. "Kal subah office mein milte hai, Didi. Hum sab discuss karenge property listings... aur aapki training."
 
Chaitali’s smile widened, relief flooding her dusky features. "Dhanyavaad, bhaiyya Aap logon ne dil ko thandak di."  As they shuffled toward the door, Deepak lingered, his gaze raking down her body—pausing at the sweat-darkened triangle between her shoulder blades, then the way her black trousers clung like a second skin to the heavy swell of her hips. "Dress code pe bhi baat karenge," he muttered, fingers twitching as if already imagining the rasp of zipper teeth. Chaitali nodded eagerly, mistaking the hunger in his eyes for earnest concern. "Ji, zaroor Main ready rahungi."
 
Chaitali returned to her reception counter, humming softly as she straightened brochures, her wide hips bumping the edge with each small movement. The fabric of her trousers groaned faintly across her thighs. Across the floor, Vikram leaned against a cubicle partition, watching the unconscious sway of her backside. "Kal subah," he murmured to Deepak, his voice thick. "Pehle toh uske specs utaarne hain... dekhna hai woh aankhen."
 
Deepak nodded, knuckles white around his phone. "Conference room lock kar denge... ekdum soundproof." He imagined Chaitali’s startled gasp muffled against the polished table, her thick thighs trembling against his hips. "Gaand pe haath maarke... ekdum laal karna hai."
 
Chaitali bent to retrieve a fallen pen, her black trousers straining into twin moons across her backside, the cotton panty seam digging deep into the cleft. The fluorescent light caught the damp patch darkening the fabric just below her waistband. Rohan’s breath hitched—he could almost taste the humid salt on his tongue. Manish smirked, nudging him. "Kal tak soch le... kaunsi position mein chahiye Didi ko? Bend over desk? Ya phir..." He mimed a crude thrust. "Dono ka mix... ekdum horny."
 
Across the room, Vikram watched Chaitali straighten, her thick thighs rubbing together with a faint whisper of polyester. Her shirt gaped open slightly as she stretched. "Gaand mein ungli daalenge pehle... ekdum," he murmured, voice thick. "Dekhenge kitna tight hai."
 
Arjun scowled, swirling his water. "Yaar, seriously? Uski skin... ekdum kala kaluta. Sweat mein chamak raha hai." He wrinkled his nose. "Saali ko dekh ke mood kharab ho gaya."
 
Chaitali hummed softly at her desk, oblivious. Her thighs rubbed together as she shifted, the damp fabric of her trousers rasping against her inner skin. A trickle of sweat traced the deep cleft of her backside before soaking into her panties. She sighed, stretching her neck—the movement pulling her shirt tight across her breasts, the wet patches beneath her arms darkening.

[Mohit.Kumar]

Chaitali Ghosh arrived at the Vatika Real Estate office early, her heels clicking too loudly in the deserted marble lobby. She clutched a thermos of homemade lassi and a notebook labeled "Property Training" in shaky Bengali script, her thick spectacles fogging slightly from the humid Gurgaon morning. Her crisp white shirt—buttoned unevenly in her haste—strained across her full breasts, and the snug black trousers dug deeper into the soft flesh of her hips after the auto-rickshaw ride. She hummed "Ami Chini Go Chini" softly, scanning the empty reception area. "Arre Baba, koi nahi aaya?" she muttered, shifting her weight. The fabric of her trousers whispered tautly where her thick thighs pressed together, damp with nervous sweat already.

She paced behind the counter, her wide hips bumping against filing cabinets. Each turn stretched the black polyester trouser tighter across her backside, the faint outline of her cotton panties visible beneath the strained seat. "Orientation ka time toh 8 baje tha," she fretted aloud, checking her wristwatch. Her breasts jiggled faintly with each agitated step, a bead of sweat tracing the dark hollow at her throat before vanishing beneath her collar. The scent of coconut oil and talcum powder mingled with the sharp smell of her anxiety.

The main office door creaked open. Chaitali whirled, a hopeful smile spreading across her dusky face. "Arre, aap log—?" Her voice faltered. Only the morning housekeeper shuffled in, pushing his mop bucket. Disappointment slumped her shoulders, pulling her shirt taut across her chest. She fiddled with her mangalsutra, the gold chain warm against her damp skin. "Koi brokers dikh rahe hain?" she asked him, her Bengali accent thickening. He merely shrugged, eyes averted as he slopped water near her feet.

Chaitali sighed, the sound thick in the quiet. She perched awkwardly on the edge of her reception stool, the unforgiving plastic digging into the soft flesh beneath her wide hips.  Her gaze drifted to the frosted glass door of the conference room. Locked. Dark.

"Kya hua sabko?" she murmured to the empty office, her Bengali lilt tinged with confusion. She smoothed her damp palms over her black trousers, the fabric clinging stubbornly to the curve of her belly and the thick swell of her thighs. A faint line of moisture darkened the waistband where her cotton panties bit into soft skin. She glanced at her notebook, the eager "Property Training" label seeming suddenly foolish. Her spectacles slid down her nose again; she pushed them up, leaving a smudge on the lens.

The thermos of lassi felt heavy and pointless in her hands. She unscrewed it, the sharp, fermented scent momentarily overpowering the sterile office air. Taking a hesitant sip, the cool yogurt drink coated her dry throat but did nog to ease the prickling heat gathering beneath her arms and between her breasts. The stiff collar of her Vatika shirt chafed against her neck, already damp with sweat. She shifted on the stool, the plastic groaning under her weight, the unforgiving edge digging deeper into the soft flesh beneath her wide hips. Each small adjustment made the taut black trousers rasp against her inner thighs, the friction a constant, uncomfortable reminder of her own bulk trapped in corporate fabric.

Her gaze kept drifting to the silent corridors. Empty. Utterly still. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the vacuum, amplifying the hollow thud of her own heartbeat. Had she misunderstood? Written the time wrong?  Here she sat, foolishly early, her notebook's eager Bengali script mocking her. A drop of sweat traced the curve of her spine beneath her shirt, soaking into the waistband of her cotton panties, the elastic biting into the soft swell above her hips. The cheerful lilt of her morning humming died in her throat, replaced by a low, anxious sigh that made her breasts strain against the straining buttons.

The main door finally groaned open. Vikram sauntered in first, Deepak, Rohan, Manish, and a scowling Arjun trailing behind. They moved with exaggerated nonchalance, jackets slung over shoulders, ties loosened. Vikram slapped his forehead theatrically. "Arre Didi, bhool gaye na hum" he exclaimed, his voice echoing falsely in the quiet lobby. "Orientation... conference room mein nahi... woh... basement storage area mein hai" He flashed a wide, insincere grin, his eyes already raking down her body, lingering on the damp patches darkening her shirt beneath her arms.

Chaitali scrambled off the stool, relief flooding her flushed face. "Basement? Par wahan toh..." Her thick Bengali accent stumbled over the Hindi words, confusion wrinkling her brow. Before she could finish, Deepak stepped forward, his rough hand closing firmly around her soft, slightly sweaty wrist. "Chaliye Didi, hum log late ho rahe hain" His grip was tight, pulling her forward. The sudden movement made her stumble, her wide hips bumping against the reception counter, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her breasts jiggled heavily beneath the strained shirt.

Deepak surged forward, his rough hand engulfing hers before she could regain her balance. "Chalo na, Didi" he urged, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her palm, his thumb pressing hard against her knuckles. He tugged sharply, forcing her away from the counter. Chaitali lurched, her heels skidding slightly on the polished marble.

"Arre, thoda dheere..." she protested breathlessly, her Bengali accent thick with alarm. But Deepak didn't slow. He pulled her toward the dimly lit stairwell leading to the basement, his grip unyielding. Behind them, Vikram, Rohan, Manish, and Arjun fell into step, their footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. Vikram's gaze locked onto the frantic sway of Chaitali's hips beneath the straining black trousers as she stumbled forward – each step stretching the fabric taut across the heavy shelf of her buttocks, the faint outline of her panties' elastic waistband digging deep into the soft flesh above her cleft. Rohan inhaled sharply, fixated on the damp patch darkening the seat of her trousers where it clung to the deep valley, the humid warmth radiating from her skin palpable even from a few steps back.

Chaitali gasped as Deepak yanked her onto the narrow staircase, the sudden descent forcing her to clutch the railing with her free hand. Her heels slipped on the worn concrete edge. "Careful, Didi" Vikram called out from behind, his voice laced with false concern. His eyes, however, remained glued lower – watching the way her wide hips rolled with each unsteady step, the black fabric whispering obscenely as her thick thighs rubbed together. Manish smirked, leaning close to Rohan's ear. "Gaand pe haath rakhna padega lagta hai," he muttered, imagining the heavy slap of palm against yielding flesh. Chaitali's shirt rode up slightly at the back, revealing a sliver of dusky skin and the sweat-darkened band of her cotton panties digging into the soft swell above her hips. Arjun trailed last, his scowl deepening as he watched the thick curve of her waist jiggle with each jarring step downward.

The basement air hit them – thick, dusty, and smelling of damp cardboard and stale chemicals. Deepak pulled Chaitali deeper into the gloom, past towering shelves stacked with forgotten brochures and broken furniture, toward a cramped room barely illuminated by a single flickering bulb. "Yahan... quiet hai," he rasped, finally releasing her wrist. She stumbled back, bumping against a stack of dusty property binders, her breasts straining against the shirt buttons. Vikram swiftly blocked the narrow exit path, his lean frame leaning against a metal shelf. "Training shuru karte hain, Didi?" he asked smoothly, his gaze dropping pointedly to her flushed face. Behind him, Rohan's breath hitched as Chaitali nervously smoothed her trousers, the fabric pulling taut across her belly and the deep cleft of her backside, outlining the distinct press of her panties' against the soft mound beneath.

"Pehle... posture," Vikram declared, stepping close. His hands landed firmly on her shoulders, fingers digging into the tense muscle near her neck. "Receptionist ko confident dikhna chahiye." He pushed down slightly, forcing her spine straighter. Chaitali gasped, her thick hips shifting awkwardly. "Haan ji," she murmured, mistaking the sharp pressure for correction. Vikram's thumbs slid inward, grazing the damp hollows above her collarbones, his knuckles brushing the straining edge of her bra strap. "Shoulders back," he instructed, his voice low. As she obeyed, her chest jutted forward, the shirt gaping wider between buttons. Deepak moved in, his rough palm suddenly pressing flat against the small of her back. "Waist bhi tight rakhni chahiye," he growled, fingers splaying wide, pressing hard into the soft flesh just above her waistband. Chaitali flinched at the unexpected intimacy, but Vikram’s grip tightened, pinning her. "Relax, Didi... professional guidance hai," he soothed, his fingers now tracing the tense line of her shoulder blades, dipping dangerously close to the damp fabric clinging to her spine.

Deepak’s hand slid lower, fingers hooking possessively over the pronounced curve of her hip bone beneath the taut black trousers. "Hip alignment," he announced gruffly, pulling her pelvis sharply forward. Chaitali stumbled, her wide hips colliding with his thigh. "Arre Baba" she breathed, her spectacles askew. The movement stretched the seat of her trousers impossibly tight, the cotton panty seam digging deep, outlining the full swell of each cheek. Rohan stepped closer, feigning interest. "Feet position bhi dekho," he interjected, his polished shoe nudging her worn heel apart. Before she could react, his hand was on her calf, fingers tracing the thick muscle straining against the polyester. "Muscle tension hai," he murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh behind her knee. Chaitali shuddered, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Thoda... uncomfortable hai," she whispered, shifting her weight, the rasp of her thighs rubbing together loud in the dusty silence. Manish chuckled darkly behind her.

Vikram’s grip tightened, fingers sliding down to the damp patch between her shoulder blades. "Breathingg technique," he instructed, his breath hot near her ear. "Deep inhale, Didi." As Chaitali obeyed, her chest heaved against the straining buttons. Vikram’s free hand drifted lower, skimming the side of her ribcage, his knuckles grazing the swell of her breast beneath the shirt. She gasped, pulling away instinctively, but Deepak’s hand clamped harder on her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her waistband. "Relax," Vikram soothed, his palm flattening against her lower back, pressing her spine into an unnatural arch. "Professional adjustment." His thumb found the dimple at the base of her spine, rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the damp fabric. Chaitali obeyed, her thighs trembling.

Deepak leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Eye contact," he murmured, his free hand rising to tap her smudged spectacles. "Clients ko dekho." He slid them off her nose, her eyes blinking wide and unfocused. "Better," he declared, tucking them into his pocket. Blurred shapes swam before her. Vikram seized the moment, his wandering hand slipping around to her front, fingers brushing the straining buttons. "Shirt alignment," he announced, thumb hooking a buttonhole. The fabric gaped wider, revealing sweat-slicked skin and the sturdy beige bra beneath. Chaitali stiffened. "Arre, bhaiyya—" Deepak’s grip on her hip jerked her backward against him, his thigh wedging between her legs. "Hold still," he growled, his other hand sliding down her belly, fingers splaying possessively over the soft curve beneath her waistband.

Rohan knelt abruptly, his hands clamping around her thick ankles. "Foot posture," he insisted, forcing her sensible heels wider apart. His thumbs dug into the tendons above her feet, pressing hard. "Spread wider, Didi." The position strained her thighs, the black trousers groaning across her hips. Before she could protest, Manish stepped behind her, his palms slapping heavily onto the taut shelf of her buttocks. "Pelvic tilt," he grunted, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh. He shoved her hips forward violently. Chaitali cried out, stumbling into Vikram’s chest, her breasts crushing against his shirt.

Vikram seized her shoulders, fingers sliding down to cup the sides of her breasts. "Balance" he barked, thumbs grazing the sensitive swell beneath her shirt. Her nipple stiffened against the bra fabric. Deepak’s hand slid lower, fingers hooking into her waistband. "Deep breath," he commanded, wrenching the trousers tighter. The cotton panties cut deeper, the seam grinding into her cleft. Chaitali whimpered, sweat dripping onto Vikram’s collar. "Bhaiyya, please—" Manish slapped her ass hard—*thwack*—the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Focus," he snarled, kneading the reddening flesh.

Rohan gripped her thighs, forcing them wider apart. Her knees trembled. "Proper stance," he hissed, thumbs digging into her inner thighs where damp polyester clung. Deepak’s fingers wormed beneath her waistband, scbanging skin. "Adjustment needed," he growled, wrenching the fabric down an inch. The elastic snapped against her hip bone. Chaitali gasped, spine arching as Vikram’s knuckles pressed against her straining bra clasp. "Almost done," he whispered, breath hot on her neck.

Suddenly, Arjun’s sharp clap shattered the humid tension. "Bas" His voice, cold and commanding, cut through the grunts. The men froze. Vikram’s hand slid reluctantly from her back. Deepak released her waistband with a snap. Rohan stumbled back from her legs. Manish’s kneading fingers lifted from her stinging buttocks. Chaitali sagged, trembling, her breath ragged gulps in the dusty air. Sweat plastered strands of hair to her temples, her spectacles still trapped in Deepak’s pocket leaving the world a smeared, terrifying blur.

Arjun stepped forward, shoving Vikram aside. His eyes, hard and dismissive, raked over Chaitali’s disheveled form—the gaping shirt revealing her bra, the trousers pulled low enough to expose the top curve of her panties digging into dusky flesh. "Seedhi khadi ho," he ordered, his tone devoid of any pretense of training. Chaitali flinched, instinctively trying to cover her exposed midriff with shaking hands. "Na" Arjun barked, slapping her wrists away. The sharp sting jolted her upright. She stood rigid, shoulders hunched, chin trembling.

"Chashma," Arjun demanded, palm outstretched toward Deepak. Deepak hesitated, then dropped the spectacles into his hand. Arjun shoved them onto Chaitali’s sweaty nose, the smudged lenses magnifying her wide, terrified eyes. "Ab dekho," he commanded, his gaze fixed on her heaving chest. "Saari training bekaar hai agar tumhari body language weak hai." He leaned in, stale tobacco breath hitting her face. "Confidence dikhao. Chest out." His fingers, thick and calloused, jabbed the straining buttons of her shirt. "Yeh doodh dikhao na sahi se." Chaitali gasped, a choked sound escaping her as she instinctively arched her back, pushing her breasts forward against the damp, gaping fabric. Arjun’s lip curled—not in desire, but cold appraisal.

"Button kholo," he ordered, his voice flat, devoid of Vikram’s false cheer or Deepak’s predatory growl. It was a command, pure and transactional. Chaitali blinked, sweat stinging her eyes behind the smudged lenses. Her trembling fingers rose, hovering over the topmost button. *Professional adjustment*, Vikram’s words echoed faintly in her muddled thoughts. Orientation. Training. Her thick, soft thumb fumbled against the small plastic disc. With a soft *pop*, the button gave way. A sliver of dusky, sweat-slicked skin and the sturdy beige bra strap beneath widened. The humid basement air prickled against the exposed flesh.

"Sab," Arjun snapped impatiently, gesturing vaguely downward. "Poori shirt." Chaitali obeyed, her movements jerky. *Pop*. Another button surrendered. The damp fabric gaped wider, revealing the swell of her left breast straining against the bra’s full cup, the lace trim digging into flushed skin. *Pop*. The third button opened. The beige bra dominated the view now, the center clasp starkly visible, damp patches darkening the fabric where her breasts pressed together. A bead of sweat traced the deep valley between them. She paused, fingers hovering over the fourth button, knuckles white. Arjun’s gaze, cold and assessing, didn’t waver. "Jaldi karo," he muttered, tapping his foot. Chaitali inhaled sharply, the intake of breath making her chest heave against the confines of the bra. *Pop*. The fourth button opened. The shirt fell fully open from collar to navel, just one more button remaining, framing the sturdy undergarment like a crude exhibit. The humid air felt suddenly icy on her exposed upper belly and the sweat-dampened valley above her bra line. Her breath hitched, a small, trapped sound escaping her lips as she stood rigidly, awaiting the next instruction, the damp cotton of her panties clinging uncomfortably to the cleft beneath the tight trousers.

[behka]

Excellent

[Mohit.Kumar]

Chaitali's trembling fingers fumbled toward the fifth button, hovering just above the pronounced swell of her belly where the shirt strained tightest. The plastic disc felt slick with her sweat. Before she could pinch it, a distant, echoing SLAM reverberated through the basement’s concrete bones—the heavy fire door crashing shut somewhere deep in the building’s bowels. The sound jolted the men. The humid air crackled with a new tension—fear replacing lust. Only Arjun remained unnervingly still, his cold eyes flicking from the dark corridor back to Chaitali’s frozen form, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The others flinched like startled crows. Deepak hissed, "Security?" Vikram shook his head sharply, finger pressed to lips, listening intently.

Footsteps approached—measured, unhurried—echoing off the damp concrete walls. Not the heavy tread of building security boots, but the sharp, precise click of leather soles. Each tap cut through the basement's thick silence, growing louder, deliberate. The brokers froze, exchanging panicked glances. Arjun’s cold mask slipped for a fraction—a tightening around his eyes. Chaitali remained paralyzed, shirt gaping open, her exposed skin prickling under the sudden chill that wasn't just air. The footsteps stopped just beyond the stacked brochures obscuring the doorway. Silence stretched, thick with dust and dread. Then, a voice—cultured, calm, utterly out of place—cut through the gloom: "Gentlemen. Is this how we welcome new staff?" Mr. Khanna, Vatika’s impeccably tailored Regional Director, stepped into the flickering bulb’s weak halo, his gaze sweeping over Chaitali’s dishevelment, the brokers’ guilty stances, lingering on Arjun’s rigid posture. His expression remained unreadable, polished marble in the grime.

Chaitali gasped, scrambling to clutch her shirt closed, fingers trembling against the damp fabric. The sudden movement pulled the strained trousers tighter across her hips, the cotton panties’ elastic digging sharply into her soft flesh above the waistband. A flush burned up her neck, hotter than the basement’s stale air. "Sir, I—" she stammered, her Bengali accent thick with panic, tears blurring her smudged spectacles. The brokers shuffled backward, Vikram bumping into a shelf. Only Arjun held his ground, jaw clenched, meeting Khanna’s cool appraisal with defiance. Deepak’s rough hand, moments ago possessive on her hip, now hung limp at his side, knuckles white.

Khanna stepped fully into the room, the polished leather of his Oxfords gleaming incongruously against the dusty concrete. His gaze, detached yet piercing, swept over Chaitali’s exposed bra , the sweat-darkened patches beneath her arms, the way her thick thighs quivered within the taut black trousers.  "Mrs. Ghosh," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection, "kindly compose yourself." He didn’t look at the men, yet his presence coiled around them like chilled wire. Rohan swallowed audibly, the sound echoing in the sudden silence broken only by Chaitali’s ragged breaths.

Arjun’s defiance hardened into brittle ice. "Sir, we were just—" Khanna’s hand lifted, a minute gesture silencing him mid-sentence. His eyes remained fixed on Chaitali’s trembling hands clutching her gaping shirt. "The orientation," Khanna murmured, the word dripping with acidic precision, "appears... intensive." He took another step, the click of his heel sharp.

Chaitali flinched as Khanna’s polished shoe stopped inches from her scuffed heel. His gaze traveled upward—past the damp trousers clinging to her thick thighs, over the exposed swell of her belly above the bunched waistband, lingering on the sturdy bra cups straining against her heaving chest. "Button it," he commanded softly, not to her, but to the humid air thick with fear. Chaitali fumbled, fingers slipping on the slick plastic. Vikram shifted, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. Khanna’s stillness was more terrifying than any shout.

Arjun’s jaw worked silently, knuckles white against his cheap polyester trousers. Khanna turned his head slowly, the crisp collar of his shirt barely grazing Arjun’s shoulder. "Your initiative," he murmured, the words icy, "is noted." Arjun’s defiance cracked—a muscle twitching near his eye. Deepak’s breath hitched as Khanna’s gaze swept over him next.

Vikram’s eyes narrowed. Khanna’s tie—usually knotted tight—hung loose, the silk dimpled just below the Adam’s apple. A bead of sweat traced the director’s temple, vanishing into his immaculate hairline. Vikram’s panic coiled into something colder, sharper. He caught Deepak’s eye, flicked a glance toward Khanna’s throat, then down to Chaitali’s trembling hands still clutching her shirt. A silent understanding passed between them—Khanna wasn’t here to rescue her. The reprimand was theatre. The director’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as Chaitali finally managed to fasten the top button, her breasts straining against the damp fabric with each shallow breath.

Khanna’s polished facade remained intact, but his gaze lingered on Chaitali’s waistband where the trousers dug deep, carving a reddened line into the soft flesh above her hip. "This basement," he stated, his voice unnervingly calm, "is unsuitable for... onboarding." He gestured toward the stairs with a flick of his wrist. "Mrs. Ghosh, return to your desk. Now."

Chaitali stumbled forward, the heels catching on uneven concrete. The director’s throat worked as he watched Chaitali’s wide hips sway up the dim staircase, the black trousers stretched taut across each heavy cheek, whispering with every step. The brokers exchanged glances—not relief, but a feral understanding. Khanna’s reprimand wasn’t protection; it was claim-staking.

Deepak’s knuckles brushed Vikram’s arm. "Saala khud ka tie dheela kar raha tha," he breathed, barely audible. Vikram nodded. Khanna’s polished detachment had cracked—a bead of sweat, the loosened silk, the way his nostrils flared when Chaitali’s trembling fingers fumbled with her buttons. The director wasn’t immune, he was hungry.

Chaitali stumbled into the third-floor washroom, the fluorescent glare blinding after the basement gloom. Her reflection in the smudged mirror was a stranger—shirt gaping where buttons strained, bra strap twisted, trousers riding low on her hips, the elastic waistband of her cotton panties digging angry red lines into dusky flesh. Sweat plastered stray hairs to her temples. She clutched the cold porcelain sink, knuckles white, gulping air thick with disinfectant. Training, she told herself, forcing a shaky inhale. Professional adjustment. Her fingers trembled as she straightened her bra strap, tucking it securely beneath the damp shirt fabric. She smoothed the bunched waistband of her trousers, wincing as the material pulled taut across her hips, the seam biting deep into the cleft. With clumsy, urgent movements, she refastened every button, her breasts protesting against the confinement. She splashed icy water on her face, the shock jolting her senses. Water dripped onto her collar as she adjusted her spectacles, pushing them firmly up her nose. The smudged lenses magnified her wide, bewildered eyes—confusion warring with a dawning, unsettling suspicion.

She pushed through the frosted glass door into the reception area. The familiar hum of the overhead lights offered no comfort. Her desk felt like a fragile island. Collapsing into her chair, the cheap plastic groaned under her weight. She pressed her trembling palms flat against the cool laminate surface, trying to anchor herself. The memory of Khanna’s detached scrutiny – his gaze lingering on her strained buttons, her damp patches, the indentations above her waistband – washed over her. His command echoed: *Go back to your desk.* It hadn’t been rescue; it felt like dismissal.. She fumbled for her water bottle, gulping lukewarm water, the liquid doing little to soothe the raw tightness in her throat. Her reflection in the dark computer monitor was a smudged ghost – dishevelled hair escaping her bun, spectacles askew, shirt wrinkled and clinging where sweat had dried.

[Wasifahim]

update

[Mohit.Kumar]

The intercom buzzed, sharp and sudden. Chaitali jumped, knocking her knee against the desk drawer. Pain shot up her leg. "Mrs. Ghosh," Khanna’s smooth voice flowed through the speaker, devoid of the basement’s chill, yet carrying an undeniable command. "Kindly report to my office. Immediately. We need to discuss the… incident downstairs." The pause before "incident" was deliberate, heavy. Her stomach clenched. Was this dismissal? Reprimand? The brokers’ leering faces flashed behind her eyelids – Vikram’s smirk, Deepak’s possessive grip, Arjun’s cold appraisal. She smoothed her shirt again, fingers catching on a loose thread where a button had strained. Taking a shaky breath that made her breasts push against the damp fabric, she stood, her thighs sticking uncomfortably together inside the tight trousers.

Khanna’s office was a world away from the basement’s grime – cool air scented faintly of leather and expensive cologne. He sat behind a vast mahogany desk, sunlight glinting off his Rolex as he gestured languidly toward the plush visitor’s chair. "Sit, Mrs. Ghosh." His gaze swept over her, lingering on the faint sweat stains darkening her armpits, the way her bun had loosened further, tendrils clinging to her damp neck. "I trust you’ve recovered from that unfortunate… orientation?" He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Those brokers. Unruly elements. A regrettable lapse in oversight." His tone was silk over steel. "But tell me, Chaitali – may I call you Chaitali? – how did you feel during their… attentions?" His eyes, dark and unnervingly focused, locked onto hers. "Resilience is crucial here. Did you find yourself… adapting?" A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "Or merely enduring?"

Chaitali shifted, the leather seat groaning beneath her weight. Her damp trousers clung to her thighs, the seam digging into the soft flesh where her cotton panties bunched. "Sir, they… they touched…" she stammered, her Bengali accent thickening with distress. Khanna waved a dismissive hand. "Touch is subjective. Pressure points? Proprioceptive feedback? Vital for receptionists managing… difficult clients." He rose smoothly, circling the desk. His polished Oxfords stopped inches from her sensible heels. "Their methods were crude, I grant you." His knuckle brushed the top button of her shirt – the one she’d refastened with trembling fingers. "But the intent…" His breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, washed over her cheek. "Was to test your mettle. Your capacity." His fingertip traced the strained fabric above her breastbone, pressing lightly. "Did you bend? Or did you… yield?" The question hung, thick and suffocating.

Khanna returned to his seat, steepling his fingers again. "Fieldwork," he announced crisply. "The true crucible. Vikram Sharma handles our premium rural listings." He tapped a file. "You’ll accompany him tomorrow. Observational training." Chaitali blinked. Vikram? The broker whose smirk felt like crawling insects on her skin. "Sir, reception duties…" Khanna cut her off. "Broaden your horizons, Mrs. Ghosh. Gurgaon’s outskirts. A farmhouse acquisition near Sohna." He slid the file across the desk. "Vikram will brief you. Consider it… immersion therapy." His gaze dropped pointedly to her lap, where her clenched fists pressed into the soft flesh above her knees. "Wear sensible shoes. The terrain is… uneven." The dismissal was implicit. Chaitali stood, the movement pulling her trousers tighter across her hips. As she turned, Khanna added softly, "Vikram appreciates initiative. Show." The door clicked shut behind her. Khanna leaned back, loosening his tie another fraction, his gaze lingering on the faint imprint her body had left on the leather chair.