The rain’s thicker, the dalvada’s
hot, and Neha’s tale of Shalini’s desk dance has the balcony buzzing. Four
friends, a bottle or two, and a debate that’s about to ignite—jealousy, trust,
and threesomes collide in this stormy second chapter. Ready for the clash?
The Ahmedabad rain had thickened
by the time the doorbell buzzed, its sharp trill slicing through the balcony’s
damp hush like a knife through ripe mango flesh. The storm wept harder now, a
silver curtain blurring the city’s edges, its patter a relentless hymn that
stitched the night into a restless cocoon. Rohan jolted from his plastic chair,
the legs scraping the concrete with a wet screech, his indigo kurta clinging
faintly to his shoulders as he flashed a grin—boyish, reckless, a spark of
hunger igniting beneath his bravado. “Zomato’s here—right on cue!” he called,
voice a rumble cutting through the rain’s murmur, his slippers slapping the
tiles as he darted inside, leaving a trail of damp footprints glinting under
the tube light.
Priya leaned over the railing,
her mustard-yellow dupatta a sodden twist over one shoulder, rain streaking her
kurti into a patchwork of gold and shadow. She tilted her head back, letting a
drop kiss her lips, her kohl-lined eyes glinting with mischief as she murmured,
“Hope that dalvada’s hot—nothing worse than soggy fritters in a storm like
this.” Her laugh bubbled up, bright and jagged, threading through the rain’s
rhythm like a stray firecracker on a quiet street.
Neha stayed rooted by the ledge,
her maroon kurti a damp shroud hugging her frame, rain threading silver into
her bob as she sipped her Sula red, the glass fogging in her grip. “Hot or not,
it’s food,” she said, voice a velvet ribbon curling through the air, her gaze
drifting to the city below—rooftops slick and gleaming, streetlights flickering
like lost stars. “Shalini didn’t need a snack break to keep going—two guys, one
desk, pure stamina.” Her smirk curled, a quiet dare lingering in the words, the
rainlight catching the curve of her jaw, sharpening her into something feral,
untamed.
Vikram snorted from his spot on
the floor, cross-legged against the wall, his faded Led Zeppelin tee dark with
rain at the collar, the Royal Stag bottle resting beside him like a loyal
hound. “Stamina’s one thing,” he said, voice rough as gravel underfoot,
scratching his beard as Tumsa Nahi Dekha faded into Chandni Raat Mein on his
phone, the melody a nostalgic sigh against the storm’s growl. “But two guys?
That’s a logistical nightmare—psychologically, a train wreck waiting to happen.
No way they’re all on the same page.” His grin flashed, all teeth and
skepticism, a builder’s pragmatism sizing up a shaky scaffold.
Rohan reappeared, a steaming
packet in hand, the paper slick with grease and rain, the scent of fried
dalvada wafting through the damp air—crisp, spiced, a promise of heat that cut
through the storm’s chill. “Train wreck or not, this is perfection,” he said,
tearing it open with a flourish, the fritters tumbling onto a scratched steel
plate he’d snagged from the kitchen. He set it on the ledge beside the bottles,
green chutney dripping from a plastic pouch, sharp and tart as the rain’s
sting. “Dig in—rain, booze, and dalvada? We’re halfway to heaven.” His laugh
boomed, but his eyes lingered on Neha, her Shalini tale still a burr under his
skin, pricking at his bravado.
They tore into it—fingers
snatching crisp bites, crumbs scattering like monsoon confetti, the chutney a
fiery lick on their tongues. Priya popped a fritter into her mouth, her bangles
clinking as she chewed, the heat blooming across her palate as she leaned back
against the railing, rain streaking her mustard-yellow kurti. “Heaven’s right,”
she said, voice lilting with delight, a drop of chutney clinging to her lip.
“But Shalini—she’s the real spice tonight. Two guys, no shame? That’s straight
out of Challengers—all sweat and tension, no cuts to commercial.” Her laugh
trembled, mischief dancing in her eyes, but a thread of wonder tugged her
closer to the edge of Neha’s words.
Neha swirled her wine, the ruby
glow catching the balcony’s dim light, her silver bangles glinting as she took
a sip, lips stained red as she arched a brow. “No cuts, no edits—just raw,” she
said, voice smooth as the rain’s caress, her gaze locking with Priya’s. “She
wasn’t playing for an audience—caught in that cabin, blinds half-open, papers
everywhere. It wasn’t about shame or logistics—it was about wanting, pure and
simple. More hands, more heat, more everything.” Her words landed heavy, rain
streaking her kurti, clinging to her like a confession, a quiet fire simmering
beneath her calm.
Rohan leaned forward, elbows on
his knees, a dalvada hovering mid-air as he grinned, scotch glass dangling in
his other hand, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides. “Wanting’s one
thing,” he said, his tone a playful rumble laced with a flicker of unease.
“Every guy’s fantasized about it—two women, double the fun, the ultimate ego
boost. Studies say 95 percent of us dream it—me included, no shame there. But
two guys, one girl? That’s… messy. Someone’s getting jealous, sizing up the
other dude—psychologically, it’s a cage match, not a party.” He popped the
fritter into his mouth, chewing slow, his jaw tightening as if wrestling the
thought itself.
Vikram poured a fresh slug of
Royal Stag, the ice clinking sharp against the glass, his chuckle dry as he
leaned back, rain dripping from his hair. “Messy’s putting it light,” he said,
voice cutting through the storm’s hum, rough with a week’s worth of dust and
doubt. “Three’s a crowd—someone’s always the spare wheel, wondering who’s
really in charge. Psychologically, it’s a minefield—jealousy, insecurity, the
whole damn mess. Shalini’s got guts, I’ll give her that, but most folks? They’d
crack—before, during, or after. You can’t unsee your partner with someone else;
that sticks like wet cement.” His eyes narrowed, a builder sizing up a fault
line, skepticism a shield against the wildness Neha dangled before them.
Priya licked chutney from her
fingers, her dupatta slipping as she turned to Vikram, bangles chiming a
restless tune. “Maybe not,” she mused, voice threading curiosity through the
rain’s hymn, her kohl-lined eyes glinting with a restless spark. “What if it’s
about trust? Like, if you’re solid with someone—really solid—adding a third
doesn’t break it. It’s just… more. Like dalvada with extra chutney—same base,
spicier kick.” Her laugh bubbled up, bright and teasing, but her gaze darted
between them, testing the air, mischief masking a deeper probe that trembled at
the edges.
Rohan’s grin widened, but his
eyes narrowed, a spark of challenge igniting as he drained his scotch, the
glass thumping onto the ledge. “Trust, huh? Tall order, Priya,” he said, voice
a rumble rolling over the rain’s pulse. “Most folks can’t handle their partner
flirting at a party without losing it—let alone watching them tangle with
someone else. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sound hot—two women, me in the
middle, all that attention, every guy’s dream pinned at 82 percent interest.
But flip it? Two guys, one girl? I’d be pacing, sizing up the other dude,
wondering if he’s got more game. That’s not weakness—that’s wiring, baked into
us.” His tone was light, but his jaw tightened, bravado flexing against a
flicker of doubt, rain streaking his kurta into a map of shadows.
Neha set her wine down, the clink
sharp against Vikram’s dismissal, her smile curling into something sly and
knowing as she leaned closer, rain fogging her breath. “That’s where you’re
wrong, Rohan,” she said, voice a velvet blade slicing through his swagger,
steady and unyielding. “It’s not about wiring—it’s about wanting past it.
Shalini wasn’t sizing anyone up—she was the center, soaking it in, two men
craving her, no scoreboard, no cage match. It’s not a guy thing or a girl
thing—it’s human. Studies say 87 percent hit the peak—orgasms flying,
expectations smashed. She didn’t look tangled; she looked free—rules be damned,
office or not.” Her words hung heavy, rain streaking her maroon kurti, her gaze
a dare piercing the damp air, tugging at their edges.
Vikram’s laugh was a rough bark,
his scotch glass dangling loose as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his
thighs. “Free ‘til she’s not,” he said, voice dropping low, threaded with a
builder’s pragmatism honed by broken promises. “Sure, it’s a rush—three bodies,
no script, all that heat. Studies say it can work—positive vibes, bonding,
whatever. But the aftermath? That’s the kicker. Jealousy’s not a switch you
flip off—it’s a beast, sneaky as hell. Psychologically, you’re juggling egos,
insecurities, fallout—Shalini’s free in the moment, but what’s next? One guy
ghosts, the other clings, and she’s dodging whispers at the coffee machine.
Most keep it in the fantasy bank for a reason—acting it out risks too much.”
His eyes glinted, skepticism a wall against Neha’s fire, rain dripping from his
beard onto the concrete.
Priya’s fingers stilled on her
glass, her breath catching as she wiped a raindrop from her cheek, voice
softening into a murmur that wove through the storm’s hum. “Risks too much?
Maybe—or maybe it’s worth it,” she said, her mustard-yellow kurti clinging damp
to her skin, bangles glinting as she crossed her arms. “I read this thing—a
wellness coach, all about threesomes. It’s the wanting that hooks you—being
desired by two, the center of it all, validation like a drug. Hot as hell,
sure—sensory overload, boundaries crashing. But then what? You can’t unsee
it—Rohan with some woman, me with two guys. Psychologically, it could mess you
up—or maybe it’s just… growth.” Her laugh trembled, a bright thread fraying,
her mind spinning—Shalini’s shadows, a desk, a freedom she couldn’t quite
grasp.
Neha’s gaze sharpened, rain
clinging to her lashes as she leaned forward, her voice a slow burn rolling
through the storm. “Growth, not mess,” she said, fingers tracing the glass’s
rim, leaving faint trails in the damp. “Shalini didn’t look messed up—she’d
cracked something open, something we’re too scared to touch. It’s not about
losing—it’s about gaining. More hands, more mouths, more
everything—psychologically, it’s a leap, sure, but the payoff’s real. Studies
say it exceeds expectations—men disappoint, women surprise, but it’s not chaos
if you trust it. Planning helps—rules, boundaries—but spontaneity’s the spark.
Shalini didn’t plan that cabin; she lived it.” Her words landed heavy, rain
streaking her bob, her maroon kurti a damp testament to her fire, unyielding
against Vikram’s wall.
Rohan drained his scotch, the
glass clinking onto the ledge as he leaned back, his grin fading into a
thoughtful squint, rain streaking his hair into dark spikes. “Payoff’s real
‘til it’s not,” he said, voice a hushed rumble, curiosity wrestling his bravado.
“I get the fantasy—two women, me, all that validation jazz. Men dream it, women
explore it—24 percent act, 13 percent total, whatever the stats say. But acting
it out? Health risks—STDs, fluids everywhere—three’s triple the trouble.
Psychologically, I’d be a wreck—watching Priya with someone else? No thanks.
I’d rather keep it simple—us, no third crashing the vibe.” His eyes flickered
to her, a twinge of unease beneath the jest, rainlight catching the tension in
his jaw.
Priya’s laugh burst out, sharp
and bright, her dupatta slipping as she nudged him, her bare foot brushing his
shin, rain streaking her kurti. “Simple’s overrated,” she said, mischief
dancing in her eyes, voice lilting with a restless edge. “What if I wanted it?
Two guys, me in the middle—feeling desired, no rules, no cage? You’d survive,
Rohan—maybe even like it. That coach said it—set boundaries, talk it out, make
it fun. Psychologically, it’s not wrecking—it’s stretching. Shalini owned
it—why can’t we imagine it?” Her words hung there, a spark igniting the damp
air, rainlight glinting off her bangles, tugging at the edges of their circle.
Vikram’s jaw tightened, his voice
dropping, a rough edge cutting through the rain’s hymn as he set his empty
glass down. “Imagine it all you want,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on his
knees. “But it’s a gamble—psychologically, most lose. Jealousy’s not
imagination—it’s instinct, primal as hell. Shalini’s a unicorn—bold, bonkers,
whatever—but the rest of us? Crash and burn, every time. You can’t dodge the
fallout—hurt, whispers, the whole mess. Keep it in your head; that’s where it
works.” His eyes locked on Neha, skepticism a fortress, rain dripping from his
hair like a warning.
Neha’s grin faded, her jaw
tightening as she set her wine down, the clink a sharp retort against Vikram’s
wall, her voice a quiet thunder rolling through the storm. “Crash and burn?
That’s your lens, Vikram—cynicism’s your crutch,” she said, steady, unyielding,
rain clinging to her lashes. “You think Shalini’s the outlier because you can’t
see past your own cage. But it works—people make it work, not just in fantasies
or studies—right here, right now. You’re so busy guarding your little box, you
miss what’s outside it. We’ve seen it—we’ve lived it.” Her words struck like
lightning, the balcony stilling, rain the only sound as they sank in, heavy as
the wet air.
Priya’s breath caught, her glass
trembling in her hand, rain streaking her mustard-yellow kurti as she stared at
Neha, voice a whisper threading through the storm’s glow. “Lived it?” she
murmured, shock and wonder blending in her eyes, the night deepening around
them, restless and alive.
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