Secrets Behind the Saree: A Night to Remember
Secrets Behind the Saree: A Night to Remember
By MASTRAMM | Anonymous Confessions by SpicyRaaz
The silence of the apartment was almost sacred. Only the ceiling fan hummed gently above. She stood by the window, the pale moonlight catching the soft curves of her silhouette. The maroon saree clung to her body like it had a mind of its own—elegant, innocent, and yet... undeniably seductive.
I was her tenant. She was my landlord's daughter. Not too young, not too old—just the right kind of forbidden. I never looked at her "that way"... until that night.
The First Glance
It started with chai. Always did. I was fixing my Wi-Fi, and she knocked—casually holding two steel cups. The loose pallu of her saree hung off her shoulder, revealing the slightest shimmer of sweat on her neck. She sat beside me, closer than usual.
"Tumhare kamre mein itna garam kyun hai?" she whispered, eyes teasing. I shrugged. Words weren’t working. Her presence was... overpowering.
The Tension Builds
The electricity went out. She giggled. "Looks like we're trapped," she said. My heart raced—not from fear, but desire. We lit a candle. Its soft glow wrapped her in gold. Her fingers brushed against mine as she handed me the cup again.
Every brush of her hand, every glance, was like a current running through me. Her breath was warm. The fan had stopped, but I was burning from within.
The Saree’s Secret
She stood up, moving slowly toward the shelf. Her back to me, she pretended to search for something. Her pallu slipped... slightly. She didn’t adjust it.
I rose. I didn’t speak. I didn’t ask. I just stood behind her. Inches away. The aroma of sandalwood and something floral filled my lungs. Her voice was barely a murmur—"Tum dekh rahe ho?"
My answer came in silence. My hand found her waist. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned back—just enough.
A Night That Changed Everything
The night unfolded like a dream—sudden, surreal, soft at first... then intense. She guided my hands like a silent director, her saree slowly becoming a memory, a trail across my bed.
We spoke nothing. We needed no words. Only soft sighs, trembling fingers, and shared heat.
She stayed the night. Not as a landlord’s daughter. Not as a woman in a saree. But as someone who gave herself, fully—just once, maybe forever in memory.
The Morning After
The next morning, she was gone. The only sign she was ever there was the faint scent of jasmine on the bedsheet... and her saree neatly folded beside me.
Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe not. But every time I see a maroon saree now, I remember a night that felt like poetry.
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