A Dream Ride 2

(Dear Readers - Although this episode can be read as a stand-alone story, to understand the background and continuity, I would request you to read the first part "A Dream Ride" which was published in this platform about 2 years back.)

A Dream Ride - 2


Sakshi held me like I was something she’d waited her whole life to pick up. Her arms didn’t shake, didn’t strain. For her, 62 kgs was nothing. For me, being off the ground in a woman’s lap was still something my brain couldn’t quite process.

“Comfortable, chhote babu?” she murmured, brushing her lips against my hair. The word ‘babu’ from a woman five years younger than me should have stung. Instead it sent a helpless shiver down my spine because she could back it up with those arms. “Tell me if your ‘big strong’ bhabhi is holding you too tight.”

I tried to sit up straight on her lap to salvage some pride. Big mistake. The moment I shifted, Sakshi’s left arm clamped around my waist like an iron belt and her right forearm slid under my knees. In one smooth, effortless motion she lifted me clear off her lap and re-settled me sideways across her chest, cradled like a toddler. My head was tucked under her chin, my legs dangling over her forearm, my back pressed to the soft, unstoppable wall of her saree-covered bosom.

“There,” she sighed, content. “That’s better. Now you can’t pretend you’re going anywhere.”

“Sakshi!” I hissed, face flaming. “Put me down. I’m 42 years old, for god’s sake.”

“And I’m 37,” she said, bouncing me once just to prove she could. My whole body hopped in her arms like I was made of cotton. “Five years younger, 21 kgs heavier, 6 inches taller. By every number that matters, I win, Sumit Bhaiya. So you stay where I put you.”

She started walking again, carrying me around her drawing room as if she was showing a new toy to invisible guests. Each step made her bicep swell under my thighs. I could feel the coiled strength in it. 

“You know,” she said conversationally, pausing by the window, “this flat is mine now. All mine. Rajeev signed the papers last month and left for Mumbai. Permanently.”

That stopped my squirming. “Rajeev? Your husband?”

“Mmm.” She adjusted me higher, nuzzling my temple like I was something small and precious. “He couldn’t take it. Me being taller. Me opening pickle jars he couldn’t. Me lifting the 20-liter water can alone while he struggled. The last fight we had… I picked him up when he sprained his ankle. Bridal style. Just like this.” She hefted me to demonstrate, and my stomach dropped. “He didn’t talk to me for three days. Said I ‘emasculated’ him.”

Her laugh was sad for half a second. Then it turned fierce. “So he gave me the flat, dropped enough money in my account to keep me quiet, and ran. Said ‘a woman like you needs a boy, not a man’. And then I met you.”

She sat down heavily on the three-seater, making sure I landed sideways across her lap with a soft oof. Before I could react, she swung both legs up, planting my back against the armrest and pulling my head down to rest on the mountain of her chest. Her arms caged me. One behind my shoulders, one locked over my knees. I was pinned. Captured. 

“See? Free bird now,” she whispered, stroking my hair with fingers that could probably crush walnuts. “No husband to complain if I carry my guest around. No in-laws to say ‘bahu, put him down’. I can do what I please. And what pleases me, Sumit, is this.” She squeezed, and I felt my ribs but not pain — just the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that I couldn’t get out unless she let me. “Holding you. Like the night in the taxi. Only better, because now there’s no one to stop me for an hour… or three.”

I pushed against her forearm. It was like pushing a pillar. She didn’t even look down. Just kept running her nails lightly along my scalp. 

“Go on, try,” she teased, grinning down at my 5’3” frame lost in her 5’9” embrace. “Use all your ‘big man’ strength. If you can get off my lap in ten seconds, I’ll make you chai. If you can’t…” She leaned down until her lips were at my ear. “I get to carry you to the bedroom and show you how I used to lift Rajeev when he protested he didn’t like it.”

I was panting already, and not from effort. From the sheer, helpless reality of it. A woman five years younger than me had me pinned like a child, and she wasn’t even breathing hard. 

“One…” she started counting, sing-song. “Two… oh, look, you’re turning red, chhote babu. Three…”

My hands scrabbled at her wrist. Her skin was soft, but the muscle under it was steel cable. She just tightened her hold, and suddenly my feet weren’t even touching her lap anymore — she’d lifted me six inches into the air using only her arms, holding me suspended like a trophy.

“Four… five…” She kissed my forehead, infuriatingly gentle. “Should I tell you what Rajeev said before he left? He said, ‘Sakshi, you need someone you can pick up without breaking him.’” Her eyes glittered. “He was right. And you… you don’t break, Sumit. You just… fit.”

“Ten,” she finished softly. She hadn’t even needed to count fast. “Time’s up.”

She stood in one fluid motion, taking me with her. Didn’t grunt, didn’t sway. Just rose, and I rose with her, cradled against her chest like I weighed less than her handbag. My arms went around her neck on instinct — if she dropped me, I’d crack my head. She saw it and laughed, deep and delighted.

“See? Your body knows. I’m safety, Sumit. I’m home.” She walked toward the bedroom door, me helpless in her bridal carry, my loafers dangling near her hips. “Hour one was getting to know you again. Hour two…” She kicked the bedroom door open with her bare foot. “Hour two is where I show you exactly how free I am. And how helpless you are.”

She laid me down on the bed — but not by releasing me. Oh no. She sat on the edge first, keeping me in her lap, then slowly, torturously, leaned back, taking me with her until I was sprawled on top of her, her arms still locked around me like bands of iron. 

“Comfortable?” she whispered, her 83 kgs making the mattress dip, making me feel like I was lying on a warm, breathing hill. “Because I could hold you like this all day. All night. My flat. My rules. My little Sumit.”

Her legs shifted, and suddenly she had them wrapped around my waist too, ankles crossed. I was completely caged. Chest to chest, her strength all around me, her breath in my hair. 

“Tell me, Bhaiya,” she murmured, using the word like a taunt now, “how does it feel? To be 42, and still get carried to bed by a girl five years younger than you? A girl your sister's age? A girl who could pick you up with one arm if she wanted?”

I couldn’t answer. Because she was doing it — shifting her grip, sliding her right arm out and slipping it under my waist, and then… she lifted. My whole upper body came off her chest, held up by just her one arm while she grinned up at me. 

“One arm, Sumit. That’s all it takes.”

She held me there for five heartbeats, letting me dangle, letting me feel how little I could do, before gently lowering me back down to her chest and wrapping me up again. 

“Now,” she sighed, happy. “Let’s start hour two. And don’t worry… if you get tired of being helpless, I’ll just rock you to sleep. Like in the taxi. Except this time, I’m not letting go till morning.”


Lying there on top of her, caged by her arms and legs, I should have felt trapped. Panicked. Humiliated. 

I didn’t. 

Her chest rose and fell under me, slow, steady, like waves. Her saree was soft against my cheek. Her arms… gawd, her arms were steel wrapped in silk. And for the first time in my 42 years, the thought that had always lived in some locked corner of my mind whispered out loud: This. This is what I’ve wanted.

To be small. To be carried. To be helpless in the arms of a woman who could do anything she wanted with me. 

But I couldn’t tell Sakshi that. Not yet. If she knew, she’d never let me live it down. She’d have me over her shoulder before I could blink. 

So I did the only thing I could. I wriggled weakly, like I was still protesting. 

“Let me up, Sakshi,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “People don’t… men don’t…”

“Shhh,” she said, and the sound was different now. Less teasing. More… tender. Her hand came up, not to pin me, but to cradle the back of my head. Her fingers slid into my hair, gentle. “Who said anything about ‘men’ right now, Sumit? Right now you’re just… mine to hold.”

She rolled us, effortlessly, until she was on her side and I was tucked against her, my face buried in the curve of her neck, her arm under my knees, the other wrapped around my back. A sideways cradle. I was floating. Weightless.

“See?” she whispered. “No one’s watching. No taxi. No giggling girls. Just me. And I’m not going to drop you. Ever.”

Her voice had gone soft around the edges. The taunt was gone. In its place was something warmer. Something that made my throat tight.

She shifted again, and suddenly I was being lifted. Not thrown, not hoisted — lifted. Like she was moving something precious. She sat up, bringing me with her, and settled me in her lap once more. But this time I wasn’t sideways. This time she had me facing her, my legs on either side of her thick thighs, my chest pressed to hers, my arms… my traitor arms went around her neck without me telling them to.

“There,” she murmured, her forehead touching mine. “That’s better. Now I can see your face. Tell me, chhote babu, why are you not fighting anymore?”

I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Because… you’re stronger than me. You said it yourself.”

She huffed a laugh, but it was quiet. “I am. 21 kgs stronger. 6 inches taller. 5 years younger.” She listed them like a prayer, but her hands were rubbing slow circles on my back. “But that’s not why you stopped, is it?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. Did she know? 

She must have felt it. Because her arms tightened, but not in a cage. In an embrace. “It’s okay,” she said, so softly I almost didn’t hear. “You don’t have to say it. Not yet.”

Then she stood. With me still wrapped around her, legs dangling, face hidden in her neck. She didn’t grunt. Didn’t even adjust her grip. Just rose like I was a shawl she was putting on. 

“Rajeev used to hate this,” she said, walking slowly toward the balcony, carrying me like I was nothing. “He’d say ‘Put me down, Sakshi, I’m not a kid’. But you…” She swayed a little, rocking me. “You fit. Like you were made to be carried.”

The evening breeze hit my face. She’d walked us out to her balcony. The city was spread below, lights starting to come on. And here I was, 5’3” Sumit, 42 years old, being held against the chest of a 5’9” woman who could probably carry me up all 20 floors if she wanted. 

“Say it,” she whispered, but there was no command in it now. Only a question. “Say you want me to put you down, Sumit. And I will. I promise.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because in my heart of hearts, this was the dream. The one I’d never told anyone. Not my bhabhi. Not my cousins. Big, tall, strong women who could sweep me off my feet and never let me touch the ground again. 

Sakshi seemed to understand my silence. She exhaled, and it was like her whole body softened around me. “I thought so,” she said, almost to herself. She shifted her hold, sliding one arm under my backside and hitching me higher, until my face was level with hers. Carry-a-child style. My legs hung down her side. One of her hands was big enough to cup my entire thigh. 

“Then I won’t,” she said simply. “Not until you ask. Not because you’re helpless… but because you don’t want me to.”

She started walking again, back inside, carrying me from room to room. “This is the kitchen. I cook here. For one now.” Step, step. “This is the guest room. Rajeev never slept here. He said the bed was too soft. I like soft.” Step, step. “And this…” She nudged her bedroom door open with her hip, never breaking stride, never jostling me. “This is where I sleep. Alone. For a year now.”

She sat on the bed, and I thought finally she’d let me down. She didn’t. She just leaned back against the headboard, arranging me so I was sprawled across her chest, my ear over her heart. Thud. Thud. Thud. Strong. Steady. Safe.

“Rajeev left me the flat,” she said, playing with my hair. “And enough money that I never have to work again. He said ‘Take it. You’re a free bird now, Sakshi. Do what you want.’” Her arms came around me, loose but unbreakable. “You know what I want, Sumit?”

I shook my head against her. 

“I want this.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “Someone who doesn’t flinch when I pick him up. Someone who fits in my arms. Someone who… maybe… in his heart of hearts… doesn’t actually want to be put down.”

My breath caught. She knew. Or guessed. 

She didn’t tease me for it. She just kissed the top of my head, like I was something fragile, which was ridiculous because she was the strong one. 

“So I’m keeping you,” she said, gentle but final. “Not because I can. But because you’re letting me. Hour two, Sumit. And I’m not torturing you anymore.” Her hand slid under my knees, lifted, and suddenly I was curled in her lap like a child, her chin resting on my head. “I’m just… holding you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

I closed my eyes. The fight was gone. The shame was fading. All that was left was her — 83 kgs of warm, solid, impossible safety — and the secret dream I’d had since I was a boy, finally come true. 

I didn’t say it out loud. But I stopped pretending to push her away. 

And Sakshi, feeling the change in my body, smiled against my hair and held me tighter. 

“Good boy,” she whispered. “My good, small, chhote babu.”


Sakshi must have felt the change in me. The way my body stopped being a board in her arms. The way my breathing slowed to match hers. The way my hands… my traitor hands… stopped pushing and just… rested. One on her shoulder, one curled against the soft swell of her chest. 

She didn’t say anything for a long time. She just held me. Rocked me a little, like the world had gone quiet and I was the only thing in it that mattered. Her chin kept resting on my head, and every now and then she’d press a kiss there, light as a feather, like she was scared I’d bolt if she moved too fast. 

“Sumit,” she finally whispered. My name in her mouth didn’t sound like teasing anymore. It sounded like a secret. “Are you… okay?”

I nodded against her. Words were too big. Too dangerous. Because if I opened my mouth, everything I’d hidden for 42 years might come spilling out. 

She shifted, and I thought she was going to put me down. Instead, she stood up from the bed with me still cradled in her lap. God, the strength in her. She didn’t brace, didn’t wobble. She just rose, and I rose with her, my legs automatically wrapping around her waist, my arms tightening around her neck. Clinging. 

“There you are,” she murmured, and the smile in her voice was so tender it hurt. She walked to the full-length mirror by her wardrobe and turned so we could see. 

The sight stole my breath. 

She was magnificent. 5’9”, broad-shouldered, her yellow saree draped over curves that could stop traffic. And there I was — 5’3”, head tucked under her chin, legs wrapped around her solid waist, arms clinging like a child who didn’t want to be put down. She was holding me up with just her arms. No effort. No strain. Like I was born to be there. 

“Look at us,” she said softly. “Tell me what you see, Sumit.”

I swallowed. “I see… you carrying me.”

“Mmm. And?”

I closed my eyes. My forehead pressed to her neck. I could smell her — sandalwood and something warm, something safe. “And I’m… not fighting you.”

Her arms tightened, but it wasn’t a cage anymore. It was an embrace. “Why not?” she asked. No taunt. No tease. Just a question, bare and honest. 

The words were there, pushing at my teeth. All the years of hiding. Of pretending I wanted to be the big strong man. When all I ever wanted was this. To be small. To be lifted. To be helpless and cherished for it. 

“Sakshi,” I whispered. My voice broke. “Put me down.”

Her whole body went still. Then, slowly, carefully, like she was setting down glass, her arms loosened. My feet touched the carpet. For three seconds I stood on my own. 

It felt wrong. Cold. Empty. 

I looked up at her. At her 5’9” frame towering over me. At her big, strong hands hanging at her sides, empty now. At the confusion and hurt starting in her eyes. 

And then I did it. 

I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around her waist — I could barely reach — and buried my face against her stomach. 

“No,” I said, muffled. “I mean… don’t put me down. Ever.”

She sucked in a breath. “Sumit…?”

I looked up. Had to tilt my head all the way back to meet her eyes. “I couldn't say,” I said. My voice shook. “In the taxi. When you asked if I was comfortable. When you said you could carry me for an hour. I couldn't tell you.”

Her hands came to my shoulders, huge and warm and hesitant. “What… what do you mean?”

“I was comfortable,” I said. “More comfortable than I’ve ever been in my life. And when you said you could carry me for an hour…” I laughed, wet and broken. “I prayed you wouldn’t stop at one hour. I prayed you’d never stop.”

The silence was huge. Then her knees gave out and she sat down hard on the bed, pulling me with her, right back into her lap where I belonged. 

“You…” she breathed. “You liked it?”

I nodded, face burning, but I couldn’t stop now. The dam had broken. “Since I was a boy. Since before I understood why. I’d see tall girls in school. Women in movies who could pick up the hero. And I’d think… I wish that was me. I wish she’d pick me up and never put me down. But men aren’t supposed to want that, Sakshi. Men are supposed to be big. Strong. The carriers, not the carried.”

“To hell with ‘supposed to’,” she said fiercely, and suddenly I was being lifted again, up, up, until I was straddling her lap, my face level with hers, her hands framing my face. “Do you know what I ‘was supposed to’ be? Small. Quiet. Delicate. A good little wife who never reached the top shelf without asking her husband.”

Her thumb brushed my cheek. “I spent years trying to shrink. And then Rajeev left, and he said ‘Be free, Sakshi’. And the first free thing I did was carry you in that taxi. And you fit. Like the universe said ‘Here. This is what you were strong for.’”

Tears were in my eyes. I didn’t even care. “I’m 42 years old,” I whispered. “And I’ve never told anyone this. Not my bhabhi. Not my best friend. I was so ashamed.”

“Hey.” She bumped her forehead to mine. “No shame. Not here. Not in my arms. Not in my flat. Not ever.” Then she smiled, slow and wicked and wonderful. “So… in your heart of hearts… you love a big, tall woman to carry you around? Helpless in her captivity?”

I could have denied it. One last time. 

Instead, I wrapped my legs tighter around her waist and my arms around her neck and whispered, “Yes. God help me, yes. I love it. I love you carrying me. I loved it in the taxi. I love it now. I never want to walk if you’re willing to carry me.”

The sound she made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Then she stood, with me wrapped around her like a koala, and started spinning, slow circles in her bedroom. 

“Then listen to me, Sumit,” she said, breathless with joy. “I’m 37. I’m 5’9”. I’m 83 kgs. I’m divorced, rich, and I answer to nobody. And from this moment on, you don’t walk unless you want to. Steps? I’ll carry you. Tired? I’ll carry you. Puddle in the road? Up you go.” She punctuated each promise by hitching me higher, bouncing me in her arms like I weighed nothing. “You are mine to carry. Helpless in my captivity. And I am never letting you down.”

She stopped spinning and shifted me into a fireman’s carry — but slowly, gently, like she was handling spun glass. My stomach on her shoulder, my head hanging down her back, her right arm clamped across my thighs. She had me in seconds. 

“Too much?” she asked, one hand rubbing my back. “I can put you down if—”

“No,” I gasped, and grabbed a handful of her saree. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”

Her laugh was pure sunshine. “That’s my boy.” She patted my backside, easy, possessive. “My chhote babu. My helpless little dream come true.”

She walked us to the balcony again, me slung over her shoulder like a sack of rice she had no intention of ever dropping. 

“Free bird,” she said to the night sky, one hand splayed across my back, holding me secure. “With the best thing in the world in her arms.”

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t ashamed to be carried. I wasn’t a 42-year-old man. I was just Sumit. 

Sakshi’s Sumit. 

Helpless. Happy. Home.