The morning sun filtered through the blinds of our Bhopal apartment, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. Shikha stood before the mirror, adjusting her outfit for the day—a crisp white shirt tucked into navy-blue jeans that clung to her voluptuous frame like second skin. The fabric hugged every curve, but it was the tuck—the way it pressed against the soft, apple-shaped swell of her midriff—that held my gaze hostage.
I watched her in silence, entranced, my eyes drawn as always to the hidden treasure beneath the cotton. That navel. That impossibly deep, hypnotically round, maddeningly wide vortex of beauty. It was hidden now, but I knew the storm it carried. The power. The allure. The madness. And today, I had a feeling that it wasn’t going to stay hidden for long.
Shikha had a major client presentation. She was leading it. And something in the air—maybe the glint in her eye or the confident sway of her hips—told me today would be… unforgettable.
At the office, the usual buzz filled the air—the scent of fresh coffee, the low drone of printers, and the tap-tap of frantic fingers on keyboards. But amid it all, Shikha was a magnetic presence. Her desk, though simple, became the gravitational center of the room the moment she walked in. Her ponytail swayed with practiced grace, her mangalsutra sparkled faintly above the line of her shirt, and the red sindoor streak in her parted hair glowed like a sacred flame. Her bangles clinked delicately as she moved, a soft, feminine music that seemed to hypnotize every man in her orbit.
And beneath that all-business exterior, the sensuality pulsed like an undercurrent.
The shirt stretched gently across her chest with every breath, the tucked-in hem outlining the round fullness of her belly. Her navel remained hidden, concealed by layers of professionalism—but the imagination needed very little to run wild. And today, I could sense, so could every man in the office.
The presentation was scheduled for 11 a.m. The conference room was sleek and sunlit, the projector screen mounted slightly higher than usual. A panel of executives from a multinational firm had already arrived—stern men with sharp suits and colder eyes. Mr. Sharma, our boss, stood by with folded arms. Vikram and Rohan were present too, along with a few more colleagues. I slipped into the back, where I could watch it all unfold without distraction.
Shikha stood at the front, poised and radiant, her confidence a palpable aura. She began speaking, and the room seemed to still. Her voice was firm, articulate, charismatic. She moved gracefully, using the whiteboard and the projector screen, explaining code and flowcharts, diagrams and solutions, with a calm mastery that commanded respect.
But then it happened.
To point to the top corner of the screen, she had to stretch her arm higher than usual. And each time she did, her shirt tugged upward… the hem loosening, little by little. At first, it was just a whisper of fabric shift. A soft curve of her creamy midriff flashing briefly as her shirt struggled to stay tucked in. But with each reach, the edge crept higher.
And then, time stopped.
A moment of perfect stillness. Her shirt lifted just enough—and her navel was exposed.
There it was. That deep, impossibly wide chasm of desire.
Round. Smooth. Flawless.
Lit by the slanting sunlight from the window, it gleamed like a relic. A divine hollow that seemed carved by the gods themselves. It didn’t just show—it commanded. A silent, sensual roar that echoed across the room.
The silence was palpable.
One client’s stern expression softened, his pen forgotten in his hand. Mr. Sharma, normally stoic, shifted in his chair, blinking rapidly, his eyes glued to that exposed inch of skin. Vikram dropped his pen. Rohan’s breath caught audibly, his throat working in a visible swallow.
And me?
My heart thundered in my chest, my breath shallow, as I stared at the very part of her body I worshipped in secret—now openly exposed. Unintentionally offered. And utterly devastating.
Her voice continued, calm and unaffected. She hadn’t noticed. Not yet.
But the room had changed. The air was thick, every man locked in the gravitational pull of that sensual, sacred center of her body. Her navel was the eye of a storm, a quiet, powerful force around which their desires now orbited.
Vikram sat rigid, his eyes burning a path into her belly.
Rohan leaned forward, his lips slightly parted, like a man crawling toward water in a desert.
Even the foreign executives were lost, their professionalism shattered, eyes wide with a forbidden hunger.
That navel—my Shikha’s navel—was destroying them. And they didn’t even know it.
Eventually, she must have sensed it—the sudden change in mood, the way eyes clung to her. She glanced down, froze for a heartbeat, and realized what had happened.
For a brief second, her eyes widened. A flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. But she didn’t panic. She didn’t tug at her shirt or break the moment. She simply… chose grace.
She continued presenting, composed and strong, her shirt still loose, her navel exposed for the rest of the session.
Every move she made—every stretch, every point, every turn—caused the navel to shift and glisten, its depth catching the light, its edges playing a sensual game with shadows. It became the silent star of the show. An unspoken obsession. A presence louder than any word spoken in that room.
But inside, she was not untouched.
She felt their stares. The heat in their gaze. The naked lust.
It unsettled her.
She was proud of her body, yes. She knew she was beautiful, sensual, alluring. But this? This was invasion. This was her navel—her secret—turned into spectacle. And though she carried herself like a queen, her heart was in turmoil.
When the presentation ended, the applause was thunderous. But we all knew—some of it wasn’t just for the code.
Shikha smiled politely, her professionalism still intact, and excused herself to the washroom. There, in the silence of the stall, she leaned against the cold wall, her breath shaky. Looking down, she traced the edge of her navel with her fingers. It still looked perfect. Still looked powerful. But today, it had become something more.
A symbol.
Of allure.
Of control.
Of vulnerability.
She slowly tucked her shirt back in—tighter this time—until the curves were once again hugged firmly, the navel hidden, though its outline pressed faintly through, like a ghost whispering beneath the cotton.
Back at her desk, she tried to return to normal. But fate wasn’t done.
As she sat, the stretch of her shirt caused the fabric between two buttons to part slightly—just enough. A sliver of skin peeked through. And with it, the upper rim of her navel.
Once again, the office stirred.
Vikram stared, frozen mid-scroll on his phone.
Rohan, carrying files, slowed to a crawl, adjusting his glasses with unnecessary focus.
Even Mr. Sharma, peering from his glass cabin, paused mid-sentence, his pen hanging in the air.
They were obsessed.
That patch of skin… that curve… that bottomless dip… was driving them mad. And Shikha felt it again—the weighted stares, the silence behind her, the rising heat in the air.
She adjusted her seat, sat up straighter, her chest proud. She wasn’t going to retreat.
That night, back home, I lay beside her. The tension clung to her skin. Her silk nightgown clung to her body, her navel now hidden once more. But the memories were raw. Still humming.
She twisted the bedsheet nervously.
I turned to her, sensing her unrest. “Kya hua, jaan? Aaj kuch ajeeb lag raha hai.”
She shook her head, weakly. “Nahi, kuch nahi…” But her voice betrayed her.
I touched her cheek gently. “Presentation ke waqt jo hua… uske liye tension le rahi ho?”
Her eyes shimmered, and she looked away. “Woh sab… jo tareek se meri naabhi dekh rahe the… aap ke saamne… I didn’t know how to react.”
I pulled her close, letting my hand settle on her warm belly. My thumb gently brushed her navel.
“Tumhari naabhi unki nahi hai,” I whispered, my voice calm but fierce. “Woh dekh sakte hain… par sirf main janta hoon uska raaz. Sirf main hi use choo sakta hoon, mehsoos kar sakta hoon. Aur main toh proud hoon… itni khoobsurat naabhi sirf meri Shikha ki hai.”
Her breath hitched as my fingers dipped into that familiar depth.
“Woh power jo usme hai… sabko pagal bana sakti hai. Lekin uss jadoo ka malik main hoon.”
A soft, relieved smile spread on her lips. She leaned into me, pressing her body close, her forehead resting on my chest.
“I love you, jaan,” she whispered.
“And I’ll always protect your magic,” I said, kissing her gently, letting my lips trail to the very place they all craved… but only I could claim.