The days following Mr. Sharma’s unsettling requests were a whirlwind of focus for Shikha. She immersed herself in her project, her brilliance shining as she met deadlines with precision. The office, with its glass walls and constant hum, was a battleground of unspoken desires, but Shikha navigated it with grace. Her navel—that deep, silken vortex of divine allure—remained concealed, a treasure guarded fiercely. Her crisp shirts and jeans, or sarees on Casual Fridays, were chosen meticulously, ensuring no glimpses for her colleagues’ hungry eyes.
Mr. Sharma was persistent. Each cabin meeting for project updates brought his requests, cloaked in humility. “Shikha, just a glimpse, please,” he’d say softly, eyes pleading. “I mean no harm, I just want to admire its beauty.” His tone was never forceful, his demeanor vulnerable, stemming from awe rather than lust. This puzzled Shikha, stirring frustration and unexpected sympathy. As her boss, he held power he could have wielded, yet his humility confused her. She responded firmly, “Sorry, sir, I can’t do that,” but doubt crept in. Was his obsession harmless? Was there pain in his eyes, not predatory hunger?
The project concluded successfully, clients ecstatic over Shikha’s flawless work. The office buzzed with praise, and Mr. Sharma, in a rare professional moment, commended her publicly. “Shikha, you’ve made us proud again,” he said, his smile warm but his gaze lingering. She nodded, her heart heavy with his unspoken fixation. His constant requests left a quiet unease, following her home nightly.
Yet, Shikha’s perception shifted. Mr. Sharma’s restraint, his refusal to abuse authority, stirred reluctant respect. He was her mentor, admired for leadership, and his humility softened her judgment. She felt guilt for dismissing him harshly, wondering if his fascination was reverence, not lust. Her navel was extraordinary—its depth a mystery even I, her husband, couldn’t fully grasp. Could she fault his captivation?
On Casual Friday, Shikha stood before our mirror, draping a maroon chiffon saree, its gold border shimmering. The saree clung to her voluptuous figure, accentuating her hips and the apple-curved mound of her midriff. Her mangalsutra gleamed, the sindoor vibrant, her bangles chiming as she adjusted her pallu. Her sleek ponytail swung playfully, but her eyes held quiet determination, a decision made. She draped the pallu to cover her navel, but a flicker of resolve hinted at change.
The office buzzed with Casual Day energy. Shikha’s saree drew admiring glances, but her pallu stayed firm, her navel hidden. She settled at her desk, reviewing documents, her intellect as captivating as her beauty. I watched, my thoughts on her navel’s enigmatic depth, a source of pride and burden.
Mid-morning, Mr. Sharma called her to his cabin for project files. Shikha gathered them, her movements deliberate, her saree swaying. The cabin was quiet, Mr. Sharma engrossed in a report. Standing beside his desk, Shikha made a choice. With a subtle shift, she let her pallu slip, revealing her navel’s breathtaking glory.
It was a vision—a deep, round chasm, a hypnotic vortex framed by creamy midriff. Sunlight streamed through the cabin’s windows, casting a glow on its circular shape, smooth edges, and mysterious depth. It pulsed with life, drawing the eye. Shikha’s heart pounded, her breath shallow, testing his intentions with this gesture.
Mr. Sharma’s eyes flicked up, time stopping. His gaze locked on her navel, pupils dilating, breath catching. The wide opening was a siren’s call, its depth a mystery. But he spoke softly, “Shikha, I think your pallu has slipped.”
She blinked, heart skipping. The navel he’d begged for was before him, yet he pointed out the slip. His restraint disarmed her. “It’s okay, sir,” she said, voice steady but surprised. “It might have slipped accidentally, let it be. You’ve wanted to see my navel for so long. You could have enjoyed the view without saying anything.”
He shook his head, eyes sincere. “I told you, Shikha, I won’t do anything without your consent.”
Unbeknownst to Shikha, Mr. Sharma was a manipulator, his humility a facade. His restraint was calculated, deepening her trust. It worked—her wariness softened, respect growing. She saw a mentor, not a predator, her judgment clouded.
“It’s okay, sir,” she said, voice softening. “I’m allowing you to see it.”
His eyes widened, excitement masked by a grateful nod. “Thank you, Shikha,” he said reverently. He leaned closer, gaze locking on her navel, its smooth edges framing a vortex of infinity. His breath quickened, fingers twitching, but he honored his promise.
“I can’t see inside, Shikha,” he said, voice thick with awe. “Your navel is so deep. Could you stretch it by raising your arms?”
She hesitated, but his sincerity reassured her. Raising her arms, her midriff stretched, the navel elongating but concealing its depths. Mr. Sharma’s breath hitched, leaning closer, face inches from her midriff. The navel was a masterpiece, its wide opening irresistible.
“It’s still not visible inside,” he said, trembling with excitement. “Can I use my phone’s flashlight?”
Shikha nodded, trust unwavering. “Okay, sir, as you wish.”
He fumbled with his phone, the flashlight piercing the chasm, revealing exquisite curves, silky texture, and faint debris adding raw allure. The light highlighted its depth, igniting a fire within him. He stared, mind spiraling, restraint fraying.
Then, his restraint crumbled. “Shikha, may I… touch it?” he asked, voice low, eyes pleading. Her heart raced, but his humility swayed her. “Just a touch, sir,” she said softly.
His fingers brushed her navel, the contact electric, her skin warm and satiny. He dipped into the chasm, grazing tight walls, a gasp escaping him. The depth enveloped him, silky and warm, each inch a revelation. Shikha’s breath hitched, a moan escaping as his fingers probed deeper, the sensation a slow burn radiating through her.
He leaned closer, breath warm against her midriff. “May I… taste it?” he whispered, voice trembling. Shikha hesitated, but his reverence won. “Okay, sir, but be gentle,” she murmured.
His tongue grazed the rim, the contact a shockwave, Shikha’s body tensing, a moan spilling forth. He traced the wide circle, savoring the silken texture, its faint sweetness a nectar driving him deeper. He circled with precision, exploring every curve, the shift from taut skin to yielding depths. His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her as he teased the edge with flicks, sending shivers through her. She clutched the desk, pleasure coursing from her navel.
He let saliva pool in the chasm, glistening like starlight, the slick navel intoxicating. His tongue dipped into the hollow, the warm, wet sensation drawing a primal moan. The tight walls hugged him, their grip soft yet unyielding, the depth a velvet mystery. He thrust slowly, savoring the slick warmth, walls quivering. Saliva spilled, dripping down her midriff, the sight fueling his hunger.
His rhythm varied—deep thrusts to teasing licks, swirling in spirals, seeking the sensitive core. He pressed his lips against the chasm, sucking softly, tightening the walls, intensifying the sensation. Shikha’s moans grew frantic, her body writhing as he alternated sucking and licking, flicking tight walls, lapping the glistening rim. The contrast was maddening, her navel a vortex consuming her senses. He thrust deeper, chasing the core pulsing with her heartbeat. When he grazed it, Shikha’s body convulsed, a cry tearing from her lips, senses spiraling.
For nearly forty minutes, his worship was unrelenting. His tongue explored every inch, alternating slow thrusts and rapid flicks, saliva coating her midriff in a shimmering sheen. He sucked the slick hollow, lapped the liquid, the taste—salty, sweet, heady—driving him wild. His fingers dipped in, stretching the chasm, then retreated, letting his tongue dominate. The cabin was a sanctuary of fervor, her moans a symphony, the air thick with arousal.
A knock shattered the moment—my voice calling, “Shikha, are you in there?”
Shikha’s heart leapt, hands adjusting her pallu, covering her navel. She smoothed her saree, composure returning, and opened the door. I stood there, eyes searching, sensing her nervous energy. “Shikha, is everything okay?” I asked, concern lacing my voice. “Is the boss troubling you?”
She forced a smile, voice steady but eyes betraying unease. “Everything is fine,” she said, stepping out, closing the door. Mr. Sharma sat, expression unreadable, but his eyes burned, a testament to the moment.
As we walked to her desk, I couldn’t shake the feeling something had happened. Her navel was a source of power and vulnerability, binding us yet drawing others. That night, I knew we’d talk, and I’d remind her her navel was mine to cherish. For now, Shikha carried her secret, a woman dancing between trust and temptation, her heart torn between respect and allure.