Ajay, 29 yrs old, was a hard working Software Engineer. He was married
to Manashi, 25 yrs old. Manashi was a housewife and was exceptionally
beautiful. Ajay wanted to have a child but his salary was not upto the
mark and so one day, he invited his arrogant boss to his house for
dinner.
Mr. Verma is a man in his fifties, his paunch straining against the
buttons of his shirt, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching as he
chews. He had arrived an hour ago, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand,
his laugh too loud for the tiny space. Now, as he leans back in his chair,
his gaze lingers on Manashi's bare arms, the way her bangles chime
when she moves. Ajay shifts uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around
his glass. He needs this promotion. The zonal manager position would
mean double the salary, a chance to move out of this suffocating box of
an apartment, a chance to finally start a family without the gnawing
fear of debt. But the way Verma's eyes drag over Manashi makes his
stomach clench.
Dinner is over, the plates cleared, the whiskey bottle nearly empty. Verma
lights a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating the grease in his
smile. "Ajay," he says, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate stream, "you've
been with the company five years. Hard worker. Reliable." He pauses,
tapping the ash into the saucer of a half-eaten samosa. "But reliability
doesn't pay the bills, does it?" Ajay's throat goes dry. He knows what's
coming. He knows. Verma leans forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly
whisper. "I can make you a zonal manager. Tomorrow." The word hangs
between them, thick and suffocating. Ajay opens his mouth to refuse, but
Verma's next words stop him cold. "One night. With her." His chin jerks
toward Manashi, who has gone very still by the sink, her back to them,
her shoulders tense.
Ajay's breath comes fast, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Sir, that's—"
Impossible. Disgusting. Unthinkable. But before he can say any of it,
Manashi's hand is on his arm, her nails digging in just enough to sting.
She doesn't look at him. Her voice is a low, urgent hiss in his ear, so quiet
Verma can't hear. "Think about our future." The words slither into his
mind, coiling around his resistance. The future. A child. A home that
doesn't smell of damp and despair. Ajay swallows hard, his gaze flicking
to Verma, then back to Manashi. Her eyes are dark, unreadable. He
wants to scream, to throw the bastard out, but the weight of his empty
wallet presses down on him like a stone.
Later that night, Manashi lay on the bed in the bedroom, having
changed into a simple black nightie. Her face was turned toward the
wall, her breathing shallow. She had tried to busy herself with cleaning
after dinner, but now there was nothing left to do but face what was
coming.
Verma entered the room, his heavy footsteps making the old floorboards
creak. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Ajay remained in
the living room, sitting on the worn sofa, staring at nothing, his hands
trembling.
Inside the bedroom, Verma undressed slowly, dropping his clothes
carelessly on the floor. His naked body was soft and pale in the dim light
filtering through the curtains, his belly protruding, his chest hair gray
and sparse. He approached the bed, his eyes raking over Manashi's form.
"Lie back," he commanded, his voice rough.
Manashi turned onto her back, her body stiff, her eyes fixed on the
ceiling. Verma sat at the foot of the bed and lifted her feet onto his lap.
He removed her anklets, tossing them aside, then ran his thick fingers
along the soles of her feet. She flinched at the contact.
"Beautiful feet," he murmured, bringing her left foot to his mouth. His
tongue traced a wet line from her heel to her toes, his lips wrapping
around her big toe. He sucked slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving
her face.
Manashi's breath caught. A moan threatened to escape her throat, but
she clenched her jaw, forcing it down. She didn't want this. She loved
her husband. She wanted a child with Ajay, not this—not her husband's
sleazy boss drooling over her feet. But her body responded anyway, a
traitor to her own disgust.
Verma licked along her ankles, her calves, his tongue leaving slick trails
on her skin. He pushed her nightie up slowly, revealing her thighs, her
hips. He stripped the garment off completely, leaving her bare under his
hungry gaze.
"Lovely," he breathed, spreading her legs with his hands.
He lowered his mouth between her thighs, his tongue finding her most
intimate place. Manashi's hands gripped the bedsheets, her knuckles
white. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, but she couldn't stop
the gasp that escaped her. Her body was responding—warming,
moistening—against every wish of her mind.
Verma lifted his head, satisfied with her body's betrayal. He positioned
himself above her, his paunch pressing against her flat stomach.
Without preamble, without gentleness, he pushed inside her.
Manashi cried out, her back arching off the bed. He was thick, thicker
than Ajay, and the initial intrusion burned. She tried to pull away, but
his hands pinned her hips to the mattress.
"Stay still," he grunted, beginning to thrust.
Each stroke was deep, claiming, possessive. Manashi squeezed her eyes
shut, trying to think of Ajay, of their wedding day, of the future they
dreamed of. But Verma's body above her, his grunts in her ear, the slap
of skin against skin—it was all too real, too present.
Slowly, the burning faded. Her body adjusted to his thickness. A different
sensation crept into her awareness—pressure, friction, a building tension
low in her belly. Her moans changed tone, shifting from distress to
something she couldn't name, didn't want to name.
"Look at me," Verma demanded, his pace quickening.
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. His smile was triumphant,
knowing. He could feel her body responding, her inner walls clenching
around him, her hips beginning to move in rhythm with his thrusts.
"That's it," he growled. "Let go."
He shifted position, pulling her legs over his shoulders, driving deeper. The
angle hit something inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes.
She cried out again, but this time there was no pain—only pleasure,
unwanted, overwhelming, consuming her.
They moved through positions as the night stretched on—her on top, him
behind her, her legs wrapped around his waist. Each orgasm he wrung
from her body felt like another betrayal, another layer of her resistance
crumbling. By the time the first gray light of dawn crept through the
window, she lay exhausted, used, her body sore but strangely satisfied.
Verma dressed and left without another word, his smirk speaking
volumes.
Nine months later, Manashi gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Ajay wept
with joy, cradling the child in his arms, counting fingers and toes. They
lived happily—truly, they did. The promotion came through, the salary
doubled, they moved to a better apartment, and the child grew up loved
and cherished.
Only Ajay and Manashi knew the truth that lingered in the back of
their minds—the child's true father was not the man who raised him.
But in the end, that secret became a small thing compared to the life
they built together.