The rain’s softened, but the heat’s rising—Neha’s teaser’s out, and now it’s time for the truth. Four friends, a balcony, and a confession that rewrites their stormy night—trust, freedom, and a threesome’s ripple take center stage. Ready to peel back the veil?
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The Ahmedabad rain had softened
by the time Neha’s words struck, no longer a torrent but a steady weep, its
silver veil thinning to a gossamer thread that draped the balcony in a tender,
trembling glow. The storm’s fury had ebbed, leaving the air thick with the musk
of wet earth and diesel, a humid shroud that clung to their skin like a lover’s
sigh. The city below shimmered faintly—rooftops slick and dark, streetlights
winking through the haze, the Sabarmati’s ripple a distant murmur swallowed by
the night’s quiet hymn. The dalvada plate sat crumpled on the ledge, a greasy
relic of their earlier hunger, the Sula red and Royal Stag bottles
half-drained, their labels smudged by rain into a blur of defiance.
Priya’s glass trembled in her
hand, wine sloshing against the rim as her breath caught, rain streaking her
mustard-yellow kurti into a patchwork of gold and shadow. “Lived it?” she
whispered, voice a thread of shock and wonder weaving through the storm’s
fading pulse, her kohl-lined eyes wide, glinting with a restless hunger. Her
dupatta, a sodden twist over her shoulder, clung damp to her skin, bangles
chiming faintly as she leaned forward, the balcony shrinking to the space
between them—Neha’s confession a spark igniting the air.
Rohan’s grin vanished, his scotch
glass frozen mid-air, amber liquid catching the rainlight as his jaw slackened,
voice a low rumble of disbelief cutting through the hush. “Wait—what? You and
Vikram? A threesome? When? How?” His indigo kurta clung to his shoulders, rain
streaking his hair into dark, messy spikes, his eyes darting between
them—bravado crumbling into raw curiosity, a man caught off-guard by a tale
he’d spun in his head but never dared to touch. He set the glass down with a
clink, sharp against the ledge, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the
storm’s glow sharpening the tension in his stubbled jaw.
Vikram’s face hardened, rain
dripping from his beard onto his faded Led Zeppelin tee, but a flicker of
something—pride, maybe, or a grudging truth—crossed his eyes as he met Neha’s
gaze, a silent nod passing between them like a pact sealed in the damp air.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough but steady, a growl softened by memory as he
scratched his scruffy chin. “Two years back—2019, monsoon like this one, maybe
worse. We were… stuck. Boredom, fights, the whole damn grind—marriage was a
machine running on fumes. Neha suggested it—thought it’d shake us loose, jolt
us out of the rut. I fought it, hard—thought she’d leave me, thought it’d ruin
us. But she pushed, and I caved. We found a guy—stranger, one night only, no
repeats. Rules were tight: no numbers, no feelings, just us after.” His words
landed heavy, rainlight glinting off the Royal Stag bottle beside him, Chandni
Raat Mein humming faintly from his phone, a nostalgic sigh beneath the storm’s
quiet.
Neha’s smile returned, softer
now, rain threading silver through her bob as she leaned back against the
railing, her maroon kurti a damp canvas clinging to her curves, voice a velvet
ribbon weaving through the night. “It wasn’t easy—Vikram was a mess at first,
pacing the flat like a caged tiger, doubting every step,” she said, her gaze
steady, warm with a quiet triumph. “But we talked it out—every fear, every
want, every jagged edge we’d buried under routine. That night… it was wild,
raw, like Shalini’s moment but ours—three bodies, no script, just heat,
connection, us at the center. And after? We were closer—boredom gone, trust
deeper than before. It saved us—not because of the sex, though that was a storm
of its own—but because we faced it together, no lies, no pretending.” Her words
hung there, rain streaking her hair, a fire simmering beneath her calm, her
silver bangles glinting like stars against the storm’s glow.
Priya’s jaw slackened, her wine
glass tilting as she stared, rain streaking her cheek, voice a murmur blending
awe and doubt. “Saved you?” she said, setting the glass down with a soft clink,
her fingers trembling faintly. “Psychologically, that’s… huge. No jealousy? No
fallout? I’d be terrified—watching Rohan with someone else, even if I was
there, imagining every touch he liked better. But you’re saying it worked—like
that Delhi couple, the ones who said a threesome pulled their marriage back
from the edge?” Her laugh trembled, a bright thread fraying at the edges, her
mind spinning—Neha and Vikram, a rain-soaked flat, a stranger’s shadow weaving
through their love.
Vikram nodded, leaning forward,
elbows digging into his thighs, his voice a low growl softened by the weight of
memory. “Terrified’s right—I was,” he said, rain dripping from his hair onto
the concrete, his faded tee dark at the collar. “Thought I’d lose her, thought
I’d hate it—every damn fear you can name. That night, I watched her—free,
wanted, no shame—and it flipped something. Jealousy hit, sure—little twinges,
like that Matt guy from some story, seeing his partner with someone else, small
stuff stinging more than the big moves. But we talked it out—every feeling,
every doubt, no dodging. Psychologically, it’s work—three-dimensional chess,
like they say, not just a roll in the sheets. You don’t do it; you live it. And
yeah, it worked—still does, two years on.” His eyes flickered to Neha, a
grudging pride beneath his cynicism, rainlight catching the curve of his grin.
Rohan’s brow furrowed, his
scotch-warmed bravado tilting toward curiosity as he leaned back, rain
streaking his kurta into a map of shadows. “So, what—you’re poly now? Open like
that Mumbai couple, flings when you’re apart?” he said, voice a hushed rumble,
his gaze probing, restless. “How’s that not chaos every day—psychologically,
juggling all that? I’d be a wreck—watching Priya with some guy, even once,
wondering if she’d rather have him. Two women, me in the middle? Sure, that’s
my lane—ego boost, fantasy king. But this? You’re saying it’s not just
sex—it’s… what, love?” His laugh was a low boom, but his eyes lingered, caught
between jest and a flicker of awe, the storm’s glow sharpening his stubbled
jaw.
Neha’s laugh was a low ripple,
rain clinging to her lashes as she shook her head, her maroon kurti a damp
testament to her fire. “Not poly—not like that,” she said, voice steady, warm,
a velvet blade cutting through his doubt. “It was once—a lifeline, not a
lifestyle. We’re not chasing thirds every weekend, Rohan—no comet partners in
Sweden or Vancouver, no polycule spreadsheet. But it taught us something—love’s
not a box, not some colonial hand-me-down we’re stuck with. Kenya showed me
that—my friend there, 39, two partners, 20 comets, free as her tribes before
the British boxed them in. Monogamy’s a script, and we rewrote it that
night—not to live poly, but to know we could bend, not break.” Her words landed
soft but heavy, rain streaking her bob, her gaze a quiet dare tugging at their
edges.
Priya set her glass down, the
clink a faint echo against the ledge, her voice a whisper threading through the
rain’s hymn. “Bend, not break,” she echoed, rain streaking her mustard-yellow
kurti, her eyes glinting with a mix of wonder and hunger. “That’s… beautiful.
Scary as hell, but beautiful. Like that Mumbai couple—two years open, happy,
rules when they’re apart. Emotionally solid, physically free—psychologically,
that’s a leap. You’re saying it’s not chaos—it’s work? Communication, trust,
all that?” Her bangles chimed as she crossed her arms, mischief deepening into
a restless pull, rainlight catching the curve of her cheek.
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 beard. “Work’s damn right,” he said, voice
rough with a builder’s grit softened by truth. “It’s not some fling you stumble
into—takes guts, talk, rules tighter than a site blueprint. We set it
up—stranger, one night, no repeats, no numbers swapped. I was on edge—thought
she’d fall for him, thought I’d hate her after. But she didn’t, and I
didn’t—psychologically, it’s a hammer to your insecurities, but you rebuild
stronger. Mumbai’s got it—physical when apart, emotional with us. Delhi’s got
it—threesome as spark. We got it—once, and it held us.” His eyes met Neha’s, a
silent pact shimmering in the damp air, rainlight glinting off his faded tee.
Neha leaned forward, rain
streaking her hair into dark, glistening strands, her voice a slow burn rolling
through the storm’s quiet. “Held us because we chose it—together,” she said,
fingers tracing the ledge’s wet curve, leaving faint trails in the damp. “Not
some patriarchal trap—me pleasing him, him owning me. It’s feminist, if you
squint—my body, my choice, our rules. That night, I wasn’t a prop—I was the
pulse, and Vikram saw it. Psychologically, it’s not just sex—it’s connection,
community, tearing down the shame society piles on. Poly folks fight for
that—rights to love free, no closets, no whispers. We’re not there, not poly,
but we tasted it—freedom, not chaos.” Her words hung heavy, rain clinging to
her kurti, her silver bangles glinting like stars against the storm’s glow, a
firebrand unbowed.
Rohan’s fingers tightened on his
empty glass, his voice a hushed rumble threading through the rain’s hymn,
curiosity overtaking his bravado. “Freedom, huh?” he murmured, rain streaking
his indigo kurta, his eyes flickering between them. “Not chaos—connection?
Psychologically, that’s a flip—watching Priya with someone, me there, not
losing it but… gaining? Delhi’s spark, Mumbai’s rules, your lifeline—I get the
sex part, 87 percent hit the mark, sure. But love? That’s the twist—poly or
not, you’re saying it’s real?” His laugh was softer now, a low boom fading into
awe, rainlight catching the tension in his jaw, his swagger bending under the
weight of their truth.
Priya’s breath hitched, her
fingers brushing the railing’s wet curve, rain streaking her mustard-yellow
kurti as she stared at Neha, voice a blend of awe and doubt. “Real—and deeper?”
she said, her laugh trembling, a bright thread steadying in the storm’s glow.
“Psychologically, that’s wild—not just a fling, but a bond? Shalini’s moment,
your night—it’s not about losing control, it’s about owning it, together. Like
that activist said—poly’s not sex, it’s family, community, fighting stigma. You
bent the box, and it held—scary, beautiful, all at once.” Her eyes glinted,
mischief blooming into a restless hunger, rainlight sharpening her features
into something fierce, alive.
Vikram leaned back against the
wall, his faded tee dark with rain, his voice a low growl softened by a
grudging smile. “Held because we worked it—talked ‘til our throats burned,
faced every damn twinge,” he said, rain dripping from his hair onto the concrete.
“Psychologically, it’s not easy—jealousy’s a beast, but you tame it, not kill
it. We’re not open like Mumbai, not poly like Kenya—just us, one night, one
truth. Shalini’s free ‘til she’s not—us? We’re still here, stronger.” His eyes
flickered to Neha, a quiet pride beneath his cynicism, the storm’s glow
catching the curve of his grin.
Neha’s smile widened, a crescent of mischief carved by the rain’s tender light, her maroon kurti clinging like a second skin as she tilted her head. “Stronger because we chose—once, not forever,” she said, voice a velvet ribbon curling through the night. “Psychologically, it’s a mirror—shows you what you’re scared of, what you crave. Poly’s a wave—freedom, work, love beyond the script. We rode it once, and it saved us—Delhi’s spark, Mumbai’s trust, our own messy truth.” Her words settled heavy, rain streaking her bob, her gaze a quiet fire weaving them into the storm’s embrace.
The balcony stilled, the rain’s
hymn a soft heartbeat cradling their silence, the city’s hum a distant murmur
beneath its tender glow. The dalvada packet lay forgotten, the bottles glinting
with rain-smudged defiance, but the night felt fuller—Neha and Vikram’s
confession a root breaking through the damp earth, its tendrils curling through
their thoughts, tugging at shadows they’d only begun to name. Rohan’s bravado
softened, Priya’s mischief deepened, Vikram’s cynicism cracked, and Neha’s fire
burned steady, all stitched into the monsoon’s restless weave, a crucible of
possibility shimmering in the storm’s quiet light.
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