The Hidden Chapters - 16

 

“Oh come on,” the parlour lady said between giggles, “a moustached mosquito, huh? Sindhu, I think this mosquito’s name starts with ‘M’ and ends with ‘anoj’.”

Sindhu leaned back dramatically, as if pretending to ponder. “You know what, you might be right! Bala, care to tell us how aggressive this ‘mosquito’ was? Because those bites look... territorial.”

I tried to wave them off, still coughing slightly from earlier. “It’s not like that! We were just—well, things got a bit... intense.”

The parlour lady leaned forward, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Intense, you say? So, tell us—was he gentle or wild? Did the ‘mosquito’ whisper sweet nothings, or was he more of a 'grab-and-go' type?”

“Sshhh!” I hissed, glancing at the kitchen doorway in case the cook overheard. “Can we not do this here?”

But Sindhu was relentless. “We’re just asking because you came home walking like you’d fought a small battle,” she said with a wicked grin. “Was Manoj the soft and slow kind, or did he come in with... extra enthusiasm?”

I covered my face with my hands. “Oh my God, stop.”

The parlour lady nudged Sindhu. “That’s not a denial. And the way she’s blushing? Tells me Manoj definitely has a... confident technique.”

I peeked through my fingers. “He was... sweet,” I finally admitted, cheeks burning. “And yes, okay, a bit... passionate.”

“Just a bit?” Sindhu raised an eyebrow. “Because from the way you were glowing earlier, I’d say someone had a five-star experience.”

The parlour lady sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Hmm. You know, I always suspected Manoj had that slow-burn intensity. The kind that builds up and then—bam! Leaves love bites like badges of honour.”

“Oh my god, please,” I groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified. “He’s not some wild animal!”

Sindhu smirked. “No, but apparently he’s got the instincts of one.”

I tried to defend myself, but the words came out tangled. “It wasn’t just... physical. We talked. A lot. It was... kind of beautiful. He was present. Gentle when he needed to be, and... well, not so gentle when he didn’t need to be.”

Both women stared at me for a second, and then broke into loud whoops of laughter.

The teasing finally began to settle into soft chuckles as Sindhu reached over and squeezed my hand gently.

“In all seriousness,” she said, her voice a little more sincere now, “I’m glad. You look happy. Peaceful. Like something shifted in the right direction.”

“So,” she said slowly, “we’ve talked about Manoj. But what about your second shift... with Sindhu?”

I blinked. “Second shift?”

Sindhu chuckled beside me. “She means me.”

The parlour lady leaned closer. “Come on, tell us. Who was tougher—Manoj or Sindhu? And most importantly... which shift did you enjoy more?”

Before I could answer, Sindhu raised her eyebrows. “Careful now. Your answer might decide if you get dinner tonight.”

I laughed nervously, my face turning warm. “This isn’t fair!”

But the parlour lady wouldn’t let go. “We just want to know who gave you a harder time... or maybe who made you feel softer, hmm?”

I hesitated, my eyes flicking between the two of them. “Honestly... I don’t think I can choose.”

They both went silent for a moment, surprised.

“I like both of them,” I said quietly, my voice soft but sure. “Both are... my men. In the room, and in bed.”

Sindhu’s teasing expression softened, her gaze locking with mine.

“They make me feel different things,” I continued. “Manoj is strong, passionate. He holds me like he never wants to let go. And Sindhu... she knows me. She reads my body like a story.”

The parlour lady smiled, almost tenderly now. “You lucky, lucky girl.”

I smiled back. “They both love me most when I’m in a saree. But sometimes... Sindhu lets me wear something lighter. Like now.” I looked down at myself, feeling suddenly seen.

Sindhu reached out, brushing my arm gently. “I love you when you're comfortable... saree or no saree.”

The room was quiet for a second, filled with a soft kind of intimacy. Then the parlour lady let out a long sigh.

“Well,” she said, “if I had two people who adored me like that, I wouldn’t want to choose either.” We all smiled, and for a moment.

After the parlour lady disappeared into the guest room, the atmosphere shifted. The playful noise faded, leaving behind a calm, golden silence. I sank back into the sofa, finally able to breathe without blushing. Sindhu moved closer, her presence warm and grounding beside me. Her knee brushed against mine, and she smiled.“You really couldn’t choose between us, huh?” she asked, her voice low, almost teasing.

I met her gaze and shook my head with a soft smile. “I didn’t want to choose. You both are... mine. In different ways. And I think I’m yours, too.”

Sindhu’s eyes softened, and she reached out to my ear. “You said we’re both your men,” she murmured. “And I felt that. Deep in my chest. Not because you said it out loud—but because I already knew.”

I leaned slightly into her touch, the heat from her fingers sending quiet sparks through me.

“You know,” she continued, her voice turning more intimate, “I always love seeing you in a saree. For me, that’s when you’re the most beautiful. ”Her fingers grazed my collarbone, where she’d once teased about the love bites

“But once in a while,” she added with a small smile, “when I say you can wear something else—like this... your shorts and that t-shirt I gave you—it’s because I know you need to breathe. To be easy. To feel... safe.”

I swallowed softly, my voice almost a whisper. “You always know what I need before I say it.”

She smiled again, that slow, warm smile that made me feel like the only person in the world. “That’s because I watch you. Not just with my eyes... but with everything.”

Her hand slipped behind my neck, pulling me gently toward her. Our lips met, slow and deep, her kiss full of quiet devotion. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against mine. “Saree or shorts,” she whispered, “you’re always mine.”

I closed my eyes, letting her words settle in my chest like a soft flame. Outside, the parlour lady moved around in the guest room, preparing makeup and humming quietly. But here, in this stillness with Sindhu, nothing else mattered.

Sindhu’s fingers trailed softly down my arm, her touch light, teasing, but full of intention. She leaned in, her breath brushing against my cheek.

“Come,” she whispered, her voice deep and velvety. “Let me show you what I meant... when I said you’re mine.”

Without waiting for a response, she stood, gently pulling me to my feet. I followed her through the softly lit hallway, our fingers intertwined, the quiet thrum of anticipation humming between us.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by a small bedside lamp. The sheets had been freshly changed—soft cotton with a faint scent of sandalwood. Sindhu turned to face me, her hands gently finding the hem of my t-shirt.

She helped me out of it slowly, almost reverently, her eyes never leaving mine. “You don’t need layers between us,” she whispered.

Her lips met my skin in soft, wandering kisses—along my neck, my collarbone, down to where her hands rested at my waist. I gasped quietly as her touch deepened, her body guiding mine onto the bed.

Time melted as we moved together—slow, connected, wordless. Sindhu wasn’t in a rush. Every kiss, every brush of her fingers felt like a question, and my body answered with shivers and sighs. She knew every part of me—what made me tremble, where I needed her most, and when to simply hold me and breathe into the silence.

About fifteen minutes later, just as I was curled up against her chest, heart still beating in that gentle after-rhythm, there was a light knock on the door.

Before we could respond, the door creaked open and the parlour lady peeked in, her voice cheerful. “Sorry, darlings. Hope I’m not interrupting too much... but Bala, the makeup’s ready. We’ll start soon, okay? You’re the bride tonight. For both Manoj... and Sindhu.”

She winked, clearly enjoying every word.

I gasped, caught between blushing and hiding under the sheet, but before I could say anything, Sindhu sat up—and with a sudden, bold grin—reached out, grabbed the parlour lady by the wrist, and pulled her onto the bed.

The parlour lady squealed in surprise, landing softly beside us.

“Sindhu!” she exclaimed, laughing.

But Sindhu didn’t let her finish. With a mischievous smile, she leaned over and pressed her lips gently to the parlour lady’s—slow, firm, and silencing. The kiss was playful but lingering, carrying more than just teasing. When she pulled away, she looked into her eyes with a soft smile.

“That’s to keep you from talking too much,” Sindhu whispered, her voice sultry.

I stared, half wide-eyed, half amazed. “You two...?”

The parlour lady gave me a look filled with both affection and mischief. “Looks like it’s not just your night, Bala.”

We all broke into laughter then—soft, intimate, full of secrets and warmth. The air was filled with something unspoken but understood—connection, freedom, a love that didn’t follow rules but followed hearts.

And somewhere, just outside that quiet room, the night was still waiting—for the bride, for the ceremony of love, and for whatever surprises came next.