Aryan’s eyes flicked up, his cheeks flushing as he caught a glimpse of her exposed skin. Sonia smiled, bending to pick up a dropped spoon, the camisole lifting to flash her ass and the absence of panties. Mrs. Gupta prattled on, oblivious, but Aryan’s gaze was locked, his pencil frozen. “You okay, Aryan?” Sonia teased, her voice low, knowing the risk of his mother noticing. He stammered, “Y-yeah,” and she winked, her core throbbing with the thrill of teasing him under his mother’s nose. She left with the sugar, her body buzzing, already planning to tell Rohan every detail.
Wednesday brought another of Rohan’s dares. “The train to the old market,” he said over breakfast, his eyes dark. “Pick someone bold. Let them get close. I’ll be outside the station.” Sonia nodded, slipping into a sheer emerald green saree with gold zari, paired with a sleeveless red blouse, its string ties barely holding her 34DD breasts. No undergarments made the outfit a walking scandal, her nipples and bare hips hinted at through the fabric.
The train was a crush of bodies, the air thick with heat. Sonia stood near a window, the breeze tugging her pallu to reveal her blouse’s neckline. A group of college students, around 20, sat nearby, their eyes devouring her. One, with a cocky grin, moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers. The train jolted, and Sonia “stumbled,” her saree catching on a seat, pulling the pallu down to expose her blouse entirely. Her breasts strained against the fabric, drawing gasps from passengers. The student’s hand grazed her midriff, then slid to her hip, his fingers bold as they traced the bare skin above her saree’s waistband.
Another man, older, pressed behind her, his hand sliding along her ass, feeling the absence of panties. “Careful, madam,” he whispered, his fingers lingering, slipping just under the saree’s edge. Sonia’s breath hitched, her body arching into his touch, knowing Rohan was waiting outside, watching from his car. A third student, bolder still, dropped his phone near her feet, his hand grazing her ankle, then her calf, as he retrieved it. Sonia met his gaze, her lips parting, and shifted to let the saree ride up, flashing her thigh. The train reached her stop, and she stepped off, her legs shaky, the strangers’ touches burned into her skin.
Thursday at work, Sonia wore a sheer black saree with a red noodle-strap blouse, her 34DD breasts barely contained. Vikram, her 29-year-old lover, texted her during a meeting: “Storage room. Noon.” The risk was insane—Priya, a nosy coworker, had been watching her like a hawk—but Sonia’s craving overpowered her caution. In the storage room, Vikram pinned her against a shelf, her saree hiked up, blouse untied to expose her breasts. His hands roamed her bare skin, fingers slipping between her thighs, finding her wet and ready. Sonia moaned, her nails digging into his back, the shelf rattling with their rhythm.
The door burst open, and Priya stood there, phone raised, snapping a photo. “Got you,” she sneered, her eyes gleaming with malice. Sonia froze, her saree bunched at her waist, breasts exposed, Vikram’s hands still on her. He laughed, stepping back. “Jealous, Priya?” Priya smirked. “Rohan’s getting this unless you make it worth my while.” Sonia adjusted her blouse, her heart pounding, but the fear only fueled her. “Name your price,” she said, her voice steady. Priya’s lips curled. “You’ll see.” She left, leaving Sonia trembling with a mix of dread and exhilaration.