Indian Dirty Stories: The Note on Her Dress in Mumbai

This is one of those Indian dirty stories that begins with a folded note tucked into the pocket of a dress, and the dress belonged to a client shoot in a Mumbai photo studio where Riya worked as a fashion stylist. Riya was twenty eight, quick with a needle and quicker with a joke, and that evening she was altering a deep red gown for the next morning shoot when her fingers found the small white paper. She unfolded it, expecting a dry cleaning tag, and instead read a single bold line in a man's handwriting. It said that the woman who fixed this dress had the most beautiful hands he had ever seen, and that he would be waiting in the studio after everyone left.

Riya looked around the studio, half laughing and half annoyed, because only one person could have written it. Arjun was thirty one, the photographer for the shoot, tall, quiet behind the camera, and all day he had been watching her hands more than the models. She had noticed it during the fittings, the way his eyes followed her fingers when she pinned a hem, and she had told herself it was professional interest. Now the note made it something else entirely, and her heart was beating in a way that had nothing to do with work. She folded the note back, slipped it into her own pocket, and finished the hem with hands that were not quite steady.

By nine the studio had emptied, the models had left, the makeup girls had packed their kits, and only the soft hum of the air conditioner remained. Riya was folding the last garment when Arjun walked in from the darkroom, a camera still hanging around his neck, and asked if she had found his note. She said she had, and that it was a strange way to talk to a colleague. He said he had tried talking to her normally all day and she had only answered in measurements and pin sizes, so he had decided to write instead. She laughed, and the laugh broke the tension between them like a thread snapping.

Arjun stepped closer and said he had one more frame he wanted to shoot, not for the client, just for himself, and he asked if she would stand for it. Riya hesitated, then nodded, and he positioned her near the big soft light, turning her chin slightly to the side. He clicked twice, then lowered the camera and looked at her the way he had looked at her hands all day. He said the camera loved her, and she said the camera was a liar. He said some liars tell the truth, and then he kissed her, slowly at first, as if he was still framing the shot.

The kiss deepened fast, Riya's hands went to his shoulders, and his hands went to her waist, pulling her against him. She could feel him hard against her hip, and instead of pulling away she pressed closer. He lifted her onto the low platform where the models posed, her legs parting around his hips, and his mouth moved from her lips to her neck. She tilted her head back, her hair falling loose, and his teeth grazed the soft skin below her ear. She whispered that they should lock the door, and he said it was already locked.

Arjun unzipped her dress slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it appeared, and when the dress pooled at her waist he cupped her breasts through her bra. Riya arched into his hands, her breath coming fast, and he unhooked the bra and took one nipple into his mouth. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, and he moved to the other breast, sucking and teasing until she was moaning softly. He slid her dress and underwear down together, and she stepped out of them standing bare on the platform under the soft light, exactly where he had photographed her minutes before.

Riya pushed his shirt off his shoulders and ran her hands down his chest, feeling the muscles tighten under her palms. She unbuckled his belt, freed his cock, and took it in her hand, stroking it slowly while looking into his eyes. He groaned, his head falling back, and she went to her knees on the platform and took him into her mouth. Her tongue circled the tip, then she took him deeper, and his hands gripped the edge of the platform. She sucked him with a rhythm that made his whole body tense, and when he pulled her up his eyes were dark with want.

Arjun laid her back on the platform, spread her legs, and buried his face between her thighs. His tongue found her clit and worked it in slow circles, and Riya's hands clutched the fabric beneath her. She was already wet, and his fingers joined his tongue, sliding inside her while his mouth kept working. Her hips rose to meet him, her moans grew louder, and within minutes she came hard, her body shaking, her fingers digging into his hair. He kissed his way back up her body, tasting her on his lips, and she pulled him down for a kiss that tasted of both of them.

Arjun positioned himself between her legs, pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, and pushed inside her slowly. Riya gasped at the fullness, her nails scratching lightly down his back, and he began to move, deep and steady. The platform creaked softly under them, the soft light threw their shadows large on the wall, and every thrust pushed her closer to the edge again. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his pace quickened until his breath was ragged against her neck.

He flipped her over without pulling out, and she was on her hands and knees on the platform, looking back over her shoulder at him. He thrust into her from behind, harder now, one hand gripping her hip and the other tangled in her hair. Each thrust hit deep, and Riya's moans filled the empty studio. She pushed back against him, meeting every stroke, and her second climax rolled through her, stronger than the first, leaving her trembling and gasping his name.

Arjun pulled out as she came, turned her around, and she took him in her mouth again, tasting herself on him, until he groaned and spilled into her mouth. She swallowed, kissed him slowly, and they lay tangled on the platform, sweating, laughing softly at the absurdity of it all. He said the note had been a gamble, and she said it was the best gamble anyone had ever taken with her. The studio was dark except for the one soft light, and for a while neither of them moved.

Later they dressed in the half dark, Riya smoothing her dress, Arjun packing his camera bag, and he offered to drop her home. She said she lived close, but he walked with her anyway, and at her building gate he kissed her again, softer this time. She went upstairs, showered, and found the note still in her pocket, now slightly crumpled. She smoothed it out on her bedside table and read it once more, smiling at the line about her hands.

At midnight her phone buzzed, and it was a message from Arjun with a single photo attached. It was the frame he had shot of her near the soft light, her chin turned, her eyes half closed, and she looked at it for a long time. She replied that the camera had not lied after all, and he replied that the camera had only captured what he had been seeing all day. She put the phone down, turned off the lamp, and lay in the dark with the photo burned behind her eyelids.

The next morning the shoot went on as if nothing had happened, models in and out, lights moving, Arjun behind his camera, Riya pinning hems. But every time he looked at her she felt it in her stomach, and every time she handed him a garment their fingers brushed a second too long. During the lunch break he slipped another note into her hand, folded small, and she opened it in the pantry. It said the same thing as the first note, only this time it ended with a time and an address, his flat, tonight.

That night Riya stood outside his flat with her heart hammering, and when he opened the door he did not speak, he simply pulled her inside and kissed her against the wall. They did not make it to the bedroom, they made it to the sofa, and then to the floor, and then finally to the bed, where they made love twice more before dawn. He held her afterward, her head on his chest, and she listened to his heartbeat slow down. She thought about the dress, the note, the platform, and how one folded piece of paper had rewritten her whole week.

When dawn came through his curtains, Arjun made coffee and brought it to the bed, and Riya drank it sitting wrapped in his sheet. He asked if she wanted to shoot again sometime, properly, as a model, and she laughed and said only if he promised to keep writing notes. He promised, and sealed it with a kiss that tasted of coffee. She left his flat with her dress in a bag and his note in her pocket, walking into the Mumbai morning with a secret smile.

Back at the studio that day, Riya hung the red gown on its rail and checked its pocket out of habit. It was empty, of course, but she patted it anyway, as if the pocket itself remembered. Arjun walked past with his camera, caught her eye, and winked once, quickly, where no one else could see. She winked back, picked up her pins, and got on with the fitting, her hands steady now, her mind already counting the hours until his flat, tonight, and whatever note would be waiting there.