Letting Her Breathe

Sunlight was already streaming through the curtains when I woke up. Vasuki Aunty was still curled against me, her head tucked under my chin, one arm thrown loosely over my chest. For a second I just lay there, not moving, scared that if I so much as breathed wrong she’d wake up and the spell would break.

Her pallu had slipped again in her sleep. Not fully — just enough that the top curve of her belly peeked out from under the blouse, rising and falling with her breath. I looked at it for a long moment, resisting the urge to touch. Last night had been enough of a leap. I didn’t want to push my luck this early.

She stirred first. I felt her go still — the particular stillness of someone realizing where they are and what happened before they’ve even opened their eyes. Then her eyes fluttered open, and for one heartbeat there was nothing but confusion in them. Then it came rushing back. I watched it happen on her face — the memory landing, her cheeks going warm, her eyes darting to my face and then away.

“Om…” she started, and stopped.

“Good morning, Aunty,” I said, keeping my voice easy, like nothing unusual had happened. Like we hadn’t spent half the night with my tongue buried in her navel.

She sat up too fast, pulling her pallu back over her belly in one practiced motion, safety pin already between her fingers before she’d even fully processed being awake. Old habit. I watched her hands shake slightly as she pinned it back at her waist — right back to the way she always wore it, sealed above the navel.

“I shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t have done that,” she said, not looking at me, smoothing down her saree like she could smooth away the night with it.

“Why not?” I asked simply.

“Because — Om, I’m your aunt. I’m a married woman. What happened was — ” she pressed her palm flat against her stomach, over the pallu, like she was holding something in. “It was a moment of weakness. I was upset. You were comforting me. That’s all it was.”

I sat up too, watching her carefully. There it was — the retreat I’d half expected. I could push, or I could let her have this morning to herself. I chose the second.

“Okay, Aunty,” I said quietly. “If that’s what you want to believe, I won’t argue. But I’m not going to pretend I regret it. And I don’t think you do either, not really.”

She didn’t answer that. She got up, straightened the bed, and left the room without meeting my eyes again, off to help Mom with breakfast like any other morning.

A little later, after washing up and getting dressed for college, I stepped out into the living room, my bag already slung over one shoulder, my mind still half-fogged with the memory of last night. Dad was nowhere to be seen — probably still in the bathroom or out on the balcony with his morning tea. Mum was on her way out the front door, a mountain of freshly washed clothes balanced against her hip, a few stray shirt-sleeves trailing down and brushing her knees.

“Vasuki is making your breakfast and tiffin, beta. She’s in the kitchen,” she said, not even glancing back at me, already thinking about the roof and the clotheslines and the morning sun that wouldn’t wait for anyone.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a second I just stood there in the empty living room, letting the sentence settle. It was just me and Aunty in the house. No Mum shuffling between rooms. No Dad’s newspaper rustling from the easy chair. Just the two of us, and a closed kitchen door, and everything that had happened between us less than twelve hours ago still sitting warm and unspoken in the air.

I felt something low in my stomach twist with anticipation.

I moved toward the kitchen quietly, deliberately keeping my footsteps soft on the tile, the way I used to sneak up on my cousins as a kid to scare them. The kitchen door was half open. Through the gap I could see her.

Vasuki Aunty stood at the counter with her back to me, working a mound of wheat dough between her palms, kneading it, folding it over itself, pressing her weight into it with practiced rhythm. The kitchen was already warm — the stove had been going for a while, a pot of something simmering somewhere, and the heat had done its work on her. A thin sheen of sweat sat along the back of her neck, collecting in the shallow dip where her hairline curled, and from there it had traveled down, pooling in tiny beads along her shoulder and the small triangle of bare back that her blouse left exposed. The morning light slanting in through the kitchen window caught each little bead and made it glisten, like her skin had been dusted with something precious.

I stood in the doorway for a long moment just watching her work. The gentle sway of her hips as she kneaded. The way loose strands of hair had escaped her braid and stuck damply to the side of her neck. The rise and fall of her shoulders with each push into the dough. I felt my pulse pick up just looking at her like this — unaware, unguarded, utterly absorbed in her small domestic task, with no idea that I was standing three feet behind her drinking in every detail.

I crept closer, slow enough that the floor didn’t creak, until I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, close enough to smell her — turmeric and sweat and the faint sandalwood of her soap, a combination that had already burned itself into my brain sometime around midnight last night. I leaned in, just slightly, and blew a slow, deliberate breath across the damp curve of her shoulder.

She went rigid instantly. A full-body flinch, her spine straightening, dough forgotten in her hands. “—!” She spun halfway, already opening her mouth to demand who was there —

But I didn’t give her the chance to finish turning. I closed the last of the distance in one step and pressed myself flush against her back, both arms sliding around her front to wrap snugly over the curve of her belly, pulling her back against my chest.

“Hey, Aunty darling…” I murmured, letting my lips graze the shell of her ear as I said it, drawing the words out slow.

“Om!” Her voice cracked with a mixture of shock and something else, something breathless underneath the outrage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Chodo mujhe…” She twisted her hips, tried to pull free, but her hands — thick with wet dough up to the wrists — were useless for pushing me away. All she could do was wriggle, and every wriggle only pressed her back deeper into me.

I tightened my arms, feeling the give of her belly under my forearms, soft and warm through the thin cotton of her saree blouse fabric, and I dipped my head to press my lips against her bare shoulder — right where the sweat had gathered — and I let them linger there, tasting the salt of her skin.

She gasped, sharp and sudden, and I felt the exact moment her resistance buckled. Her spine, which had been rigid a second ago, softened. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Her breath, which had been coming fast and angry, shifted into something shallower, shakier.

“Chi… what are you doing, Om,” she managed, though the protest had lost most of its teeth. “I am your aunt. This isn’t right. Go — before Didi or Bhaiya sees us.”

“Relax,” I said, keeping my voice low and unbothered, my lips still moving against her shoulder with every word. “Neither of them are around right now.” I paused, savouring the warmth of her, the way her heartbeat had picked up under my palms where they rested flat against her stomach. “Besides — I thought after everything that happened last night, you’d start wearing your saree a little differently.”

“I…” The word died in her throat. I felt her swallow, felt the small movement of it against my chest.

I didn’t wait for her to find the rest of the sentence. My fingers found the safety pin holding her pallu fast at her waist, and with one practiced tug I had it undone, the metal cool and small between my fingers before I let it fall somewhere onto the counter, forgotten.

Her whole body jolted awake again, the fight rushing back in. “Om, what the — stop it, right now, I mean it—”

“Just letting your beautiful navel breathe, Aunty,” I whispered, and before she could gather the leverage to actually stop me, my fingers slipped into the loosened fold of her saree at the waist, hooked into the fabric, and pulled down in one firm, decisive motion — down past the line she’d worn it at for years, down until the entire soft slope of her belly lay bare in the kitchen’s warm light, her navel exposed and gasping, vulnerable, right there under my palm.

“Ishhhh… Om… stop. Ahhh…” The sound broke out of her, somewhere between a protest and a moan, as I let my hand settle flat against the newly bared skin and simply held it there for a moment, feeling her stomach quiver beneath my palm, feeling the heat of her.

“Look how sweaty your belly’s gotten, Aunty,” I said softly, my voice thick with something I didn’t bother hiding anymore. I let my palm drag slowly across the expanse of her stomach, feeling the slight dampness cling and drag against my skin, feeling every soft tremor that ran through her at the contact. Her skin was so warm it was almost feverish, and impossibly soft, giving gently under the lightest pressure like she’d been made specifically to be touched this way.

“Ahhh… please, Om… no… someone will see…” she protested, weak and breathless now, trying uselessly to twist her hips away from my wandering hand, her doughed fingers still hovering uselessly in the air on either side of her, refusing — or unable — to actually push me off. I was already in my college clothes, freshly ironed, and the last thing I needed was flour and turmeric smudged across my sleeves for Mum to ask questions about. So I kept my movements careful, deliberate, savouring every inch instead of rushing.

“If your belly alone is this sweaty,” I murmured, letting my hand come to rest directly over the centre of her stomach, my palm hovering just above the deep, diamond-shaped hollow of her navel without quite touching it yet, drawing the anticipation out, “I can only imagine what’s waiting inside.”

My own heart was hammering hard enough that I was sure she could feel it against her back. I was drunk on her — on the mingled scent of her sweat and soap, on the trembling warmth trapped under my palm, on the sheer audacity of what I was doing to her in broad daylight with her own husband’s absence still fresh and raw between us, on what I was about to do next.

I began tracing slow circles around the rim of her navel, feather-light at first, just enough to make her breath hitch, and I felt it — the way her whole stomach seemed to flutter and dance under my fingertip with every pass, the muscles beneath the skin tightening involuntarily, the navel itself seeming to pulse in anticipation of what was coming.

“Ahh, Om… no, please… not there… not now,” she whimpered, and I couldn’t tell — didn’t want to tell, honestly, because both answers thrilled me equally — whether it was shame driving that tremor in her voice, or shyness, or the low coil of pleasure she was fighting so hard to keep contained. Maybe it was all three, twisted together into something she didn’t have a name for yet.

I let the anticipation stretch one more second. Two. Then I pressed my finger in.

It slid home with a soft, wet pop, sinking into the slick, waiting heat of her, and her entire body convulsed against mine, a full-body shudder that rocked her back into my chest.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh… Ommmmmm…”

“So wet already,” I whispered right against her ear, feeling the tight, slick heat of her close around my finger, feeling her spasm gently with every small movement I made. “With this much sweat pooling in here, no wonder so much dirt gets trapped.” I found the shy little knot buried deep at the furthest point and pressed against it, rotating my fingertip slow and deliberate, feeling her pulsing, velvety folds grip and release rhythmically around the intrusion, feeling her knees actually go weak enough that she had to lean her full weight back into me to stay upright.

“I… I get it… please, stop now, before someone walks in,” she begged, voice cracking somewhere between pleasure and rising panic, her hips beginning to roll faintly, helplessly, against my hand despite everything she was saying.

And that was the exact moment I heard it.

A creak. The front door, out beyond the kitchen wall.

I froze, then moved fast — pulling my hand free in one motion, stepping back and letting go of her entirely, leaving her swaying slightly against the counter, gasping, dishevelled, her saree still hanging low and open around her exposed belly. I darted to the kitchen doorway and peeked around the frame, my heart in my throat.

It was Dad.

He shuffled in, completely oblivious, dropped himself into his easy chair with a soft groan, and unfolded the newspaper across his lap, already lost in the headlines.

I let out a slow breath, forced my racing pulse to settle, and walked out of the kitchen like absolutely nothing had happened, settling myself at the dining table to wait for breakfast — my hands steady on the table’s edge, my face arranged into practiced calm, while underneath it my whole body was still thrumming, alive, drunk on adrenaline and the taste of what I’d just gotten away with.

My hand was still slick with her sweat. Especially my index finger which was digging around in her navel just moments ago. I brought it close to my nose. The pungent smell that got into my nostrils was intoxicating. I breathed it in letting it fill my senses. I don’t know how I sat there smelling my hand in bliss when I was suddenly snapped awake by a loud clearing of throat.

A furiously blushing Vasuki Aunty was standing there carrying plate and food. She was staring at me sternly. I smiled sheepishly at her. 

“Go and wash your hands Om. Time to eat breakfast.” She said keeping her voice neutral as Dad as nearby. 

“I already washed Aunty. See its still damp.” I said wickedly showing her my palm. 

She threw a panicked look at my Dad before muttering angrily “Go and wash Om. I know full well thats not water.”

“Oh? Then what is it, Aunty?” I teased. 

“Please…” she begged.

“Allright allright.” I grinned and half heatedly went and washed off her sweat from my hands. When I came back she was laying out my plate. She looked downright sexy with her saree now ties low. Her waist peeked out from the side deliciously and now seemed to have wiped clean of sweat. When I got near I shook my hands near her open waist making water droplets fly into her exposed hip making her gasp slightly. She stared daggers at me though a small smile was playing at her lips now. 

“Eat !!” She said sternly. “I will go and pack your tiffin.” she said disappearing back into the kitchen. 

I quickly ate the yummy breakfast she cooked for me and prepared to leave for college. She came back with my tiffin box. 

“Dont cage it again as soon as I leave ok” I teased. “Let it breathe…” I said winking.

“Shut up.” She said smiling grudgingly. I looked around making sure nobody was looking our way before bring two finger to my lips kissing them and quickly press them into her hip making her yelp and looking around in panic.

“You….get out now..” She said raising her as though going to mock hit. I just laugh and run out already starting to count the minutes before I am back home. 

My hand was still slick with her — her sweat clinging to my palm, my index finger especially, the one that had been buried deep inside her navel just minutes ago. I brought it up close to my nose without even thinking about it, some instinct pulling it there on its own. The smell that hit my nostrils was sharp and musky and utterly intoxicating, a scent that belonged to no perfume counter, something raw and human and entirely hers. I breathed it in slow, letting it fill my head, my eyes drifting half-shut in something close to reverence.

I don’t know how long I sat there like that, lost in it, my hand pressed to my face like an idiot in a trance — until a loud, pointed clearing of the throat snapped me straight back to the dining room.

Vasuki Aunty was standing right in front of me, a plate balanced in one hand, a bowl in the other, her face a furious shade of red. She was staring at me with a sternness that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I smiled at her sheepishly, lowering my hand.

“Go and wash your hands, Om. Time to eat breakfast,” she said, her voice pitched carefully neutral — the voice of someone acutely aware that Dad was sitting six feet away behind his newspaper.

“I already washed, Aunty. See, it’s still damp,” I said, wicked, holding my palm up toward her so she’d get a proper look.

She shot a quick, panicked glance in Dad’s direction before hissing under her breath, “Go and wash, Om. I know full well that’s not water.”

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow, keeping my voice just as low, just as teasing. “Then what is it, Aunty?”

“Please…” The word came out strangled, somewhere between a plea and a warning, her eyes darting again to Dad’s newspaper, willing him not to look up.

“All right, all right.” I grinned and pushed back from the table, sauntering off to the bathroom, taking my time about it, washing the evidence of her off my hands with more reluctance than the task really called for.

When I came back, she was laying out my plate, bent slightly over the table, and God, she looked sexy like that — saree tied low now, sitting well beneath her navel the way I’d left it, her waist peeking out from the side of the fabric in a soft, deliciously bare curve. The sweat I’d left smeared across her skin earlier was gone now, wiped away, her belly clean and glowing faintly in the morning light.

I walked up behind her and, before she could react, gave my damp hands a quick shake right beside her exposed waist, sending a few stray droplets flying onto her bare hip.

She gasped, flinching sideways. “Om!”

I just grinned. She turned to glare daggers at me — proper venom in the look, or at least an attempt at it — except it was undercut entirely by the small, helpless smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, the one she was clearly fighting to keep down.

“Eat!!” she said, sharp and final, pointing at my plate. “I’ll go and pack your tiffin.” And with that she vanished back into the kitchen, pallu swaying loose at her waist as she went.

I sat down and ate — she really was a good cook, the parathas soft and perfectly spiced, and hunger won out over teasing for the next few minutes while Dad rustled his newspaper and hummed along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware of the entire universe that had just unfolded three feet from him.

By the time I’d finished and was slinging my bag over my shoulder, ready to head out, she reappeared with the tiffin box in hand, holding it out to me.

“Don’t cage it again as soon as I leave, okay?” I said, taking the box from her but not stepping back, leaning in just slightly instead. “Let it breathe…” I added, and finished the sentence with a slow wink.

“Shut up,” she said, but she was smiling now, grudging and helpless, the blush still sitting warm on her cheeks.

I glanced around quickly — Dad absorbed in his paper, no one else in sight — then brought two fingers to my lips, pressed a quick kiss to them, and reached out to press them firmly against the bare skin of her hip before she could react.

She yelped, jerking back, eyes flying wide as she checked around the room in a flash of panic. “You— get out. Get out right now,” she said, raising her hand like she might actually swat me, though there was no real force behind the threat, just flustered heat.

I laughed and bolted for the door before she could make good on it. But even before I’d crossed the threshold, I was already counting down the hours until I’d be back home again.