A Dream Ride 3

(Dear Readers, Although this can be read as a stand-alone story, I would request the new readers to read the earlier two episodes to understand the continuity of the story so far.
The first part was published 2 years earlier and the second part just 3 weeks prior to this episode. Just scroll down on the list of my stories and you will be able to locate the earlier parts.)


Sakshi carried me back inside from the balcony like I was made of moonlight and promises. Fireman’s carry, my world tilted upside down, her shoulder solid under my stomach, her arm locked across the backs of my thighs. 

But it wasn’t the rough, teasing haul she’d threatened earlier. This was slow. Reverent. Her hand splayed wide across my back, just holding me there, feeling me breathe. 

“Sumit,” she murmured, walking us into the bedroom again. “Do you know what time it is?”

I couldn’t see a clock from over her shoulder. “Uh… late?”

“Hour three,” she said, and I felt her smile against my leg. “The hour where I stop asking if you want to be carried… and start teaching you how to ask for it.”

She knelt on the bed — didn’t drop me, didn’t dump me. Knelt, with me still slung over her shoulder, and then slowly, carefully, rolled me down her front until I was lying across her lap again. I was cradled on my side, head on the pillow of her chest, her arms wrapped around me like I was the most natural thing in the world to hold.

“There are rules in this flat now,” she said, playing with my hair. Her fingers were so gentle it made my chest ache. “Rule one: Sakshi’s lap is always open. Rule two: Sakshi’s arms are always free. Rule three…” She tapped my nose with one finger. “My chhote babu has to use his words.”

I blinked up at her. “My… words?”

“Mmm.” She shifted me, sitting up straighter, and suddenly I was sliding. Before I could yelp, her hands caught me, hauling me up until I was upright, straddling her lap again, face-to-face. My feet didn’t touch the bed. They never did when I was with her. “You said you love it when I carry you. That it’s your dream. But dreams don’t work if you’re too scared to speak them, Sumit.”

Her hands were big and warm on my waist. Not restraining. Anchoring. 

“So,” she said, eyes shining. “We practice. I’m going to put you on your feet. And if you want to be back in my arms, you have to ask. Properly.”

Panic flickered. “Sakshi, I—”

“Ah-ah.” She touched a finger to my lips. “No ‘I can’t’. No ‘men don’t’. In this room, in my lap, you’re just Sumit. And Sumit gets carried when he asks. That’s the new rule.”

Slowly, like she was unwrapping the most precious gift, she lifted me off her lap and set me on my feet on the mattress. I wobbled. The bed was soft. Without her arms, I felt… unmoored. Small. 

She stayed sitting, which meant I still had to look up at her even while standing. 5’9” vs 5’3”. The math had never been crueler. Or kinder. 

“There,” she said, folding her hands in her own lap, empty. “Now. Do you want to be in my arms, Sumit?”

My face went hot. My whole life I’d been taught not to want this. Not to say it. Not to need it. 

But her lap was right there. Warm. Wide. Waiting. Her arms were open, and her eyes… gawd, her eyes weren’t mocking. They were hopeful. 

I opened my mouth. Closed it. 

Sakshi waited. She didn’t tease. Didn’t cajole. Just waited, like she had all the time in the world for me. 

“Sakshi,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “Will you… will you pick me up?”

The smile that broke across her face could have lit the whole city. “There he is,” she breathed. And then I was flying. 

She didn’t stand. She just reached out, hooked one arm under my knees, one behind my back, and lifted. One smooth, effortless motion and I was off the bed, off the ground, off the planet, and back in her lap, cradled sideways against her chest like I’d never left. 

“Good boy,” she whispered into my hair, rocking me. “So good. See how easy that was? You ask, I carry. Always.”

I buried my face in her neck, shaking. Relief. Joy. Thirty years of secret wanting all crashing down at once. “Again,” I mumbled before I could stop myself. “Put me down and… and let me ask again.”

Her laugh was wet. “Greedy babu.” But she did it. She set me on my feet again, steadying me with those huge, gentle hands until I was balanced. Then she pulled back and waited. 

This time it was easier. “Sakshi Didi… will you carry me? Please?”

“‘Didi’ now?” she teased, but her arms were already around me, scooping me up into a bridal carry before the word was fully out. “I like that. Makes me feel ten feet tall instead of just six.”

She stood this time, taking me with her, and walked us to the mirror again. “Look,” she said softly. “Look how right you look in my arms, Sumit. Like you were never meant to walk anywhere I can carry you.”

I looked. And for the first time, I didn’t see a 42-year-old man being infantilized. I saw a man being adored. Held by a 37-year-old goddess who had the strength to lift him and the heart to want to. 

“Sakshi,” I said, testing the word, testing the power she’d given me. “Can you… can you carry me like the fireman again? But… slow? Like you won’t drop me?”

“Anything,” she said instantly. And then I was moving, tilting, settling, until my stomach was on her shoulder, my head hanging down her back, her arm a bar of iron across my thighs. But she wasn’t striding. She was swaying. One hand rubbing circles on my back. 

“Is this how you dreamed it?” she asked the room, her voice vibrating through me. “Being helpless? Being mine?”

“Yes,” I breathed. The truth was out now, and it was the lightest thing in the world. “Yes, Sakshi. Just like this. Helpless in your captivity. And I never want to escape.”

She made a sound, low and broken and happy, and turned and walked us back to the bed. But she didn’t put me down. She lay down with me still over her shoulder, then rolled, tucking me against her side, then her chest, then finally, finally, back into her lap where she seemed to like me best. 

“Then you won’t,” she said, kissing my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, little blessings from a woman who could snap me in half but chose to hold me together instead. “You’re captured, Sumit. By a free bird who’s building her nest right here, around you.”

Her arms came around me, and the last of my tension melted. 

“Rule four,” she whispered, already sounding sleepy, content. “When chhote babu gets tired of asking… Sakshi just knows. And she picks him up anyway.”

I was already half-asleep, safe in the 83 kgs of heaven that was Sakshi’s lap. “And rule five?” I mumbled. 

She smiled against my hair. “There is no rule five. Because I’m never putting you down long enough to need one.”

Outside, the city waited for her. Money waited in her bank. The world waited for Sakshi the free bird. 

But inside, in her flat, in her arms, her world was 5’3” and 62 kgs and finally, finally home. 

And I… I never asked to walk again that night. 

---

I woke up to the smell of chai and the impossible feeling of floating. 

I wasn’t in bed. I wasn’t even on the bed. 

I was in the air. 

Sakshi had me. Of course she had me. One arm under my knees, the other locked behind my back, cradled to her chest like I was a child who’d fallen asleep mid-tantrum. My face was buried in her neck, my legs dangling, my 62 kgs nothing to her 83. 

“Good morning, chhote babu,” she murmured, and her voice vibrated through my whole body. She was already dressed — another saree, deep blue this time, her hair still damp from a shower. She looked like a goddess. She felt like one. “Did you sleep well?”

I tried to answer. My brain was still foggy, still caught between dream and the even better reality of being held by her. All that came out was a mumble. 

She laughed, soft and delighted, and shifted me. Didn’t put me down. Never that. She just hiked me higher against her chest, nuzzled my hair, and started walking. 

“You were talking in your sleep,” she said, stepping out of the bedroom with me in her arms like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Kept saying ‘don’t put me down, Sakshi Didi’. Over and over.”

My face flamed. “I… I didn’t…”

“Shhh.” She kissed my temple. “I know. Rule four, remember? When my babu gets tired of asking, I just know.”

We were in the kitchen. She didn’t break stride. Went right to the stove, with me still in her bridal carry, and reached for the chai with her free hand. Poured it one-handed, steady as a rock. My head was spinning — not from being carried. From being allowed to be carried. Like this. In daylight. While she made breakfast. 

“Sakshi,” I whispered, helpless. “I can walk. Let me…”

She turned, and suddenly I was higher. She’d switched grips, hauling me up so I was sitting on her forearm, my legs dangling on either side of her hip, her other arm banded across my back so I couldn’t fall if I tried. Carry-a-toddler style. My face was level with hers. 

“No,” she said. Simple. Final. But her eyes were soft. “Why would you walk when I’m here? My husband left me this flat and all his money because he couldn’t stand a woman stronger than him. I’m not wasting that strength, Sumit. Not on you.”

She walked to the dining table, still holding me, and sat down with me in her lap. Not beside her. In. My back to her chest, her arms coming around me, caging me in. She picked up the chai with one hand, held it to my lips with the other arm locked around my waist. 

“Drink,” she said. Not a request. A command wrapped in velvet. “My babu needs his strength. Not for walking. For holding on to me.”

I drank. What else could I do? I was 42 years old, a company manager, and I was being fed chai in the lap of a woman five years younger than me who could bench press me without breathing hard. And I loved it. 

The doorbell rang. 

Sakshi didn’t flinch. She just adjusted me, lifting me with one arm so I was straddling her lap, facing her, my arms going around her neck on pure instinct. Captive. Displayed. 

“That’ll be Kanta,” she said, calm as anything. “Building watchman Rakesh's wife. She brings the milk and the newspaper.”

“Sakshi!” I hissed, panicking. “Put me down! She’ll see!”

She looked at me, and for the first time since hour two, her smile had teeth. “Let her.” She stood, and I came with her — no choice, no chance. She settled me over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry before I could protest, one huge arm clamped across the backs of my thighs, my head hanging down her back, my hands scrabbling uselessly at her saree. 

“Sakshi Didi, please,” I begged, my voice muffled against her back. “I’m too old for this, I—”

“You’re exactly the right age,” she said, and walked to the door. “And you’re mine to carry. Remember?”

She opened the door. 

I couldn’t see Kanta’s face. I was upside down, staring at Sakshi’s calves, feeling her walk, feeling her power. But I heard her. 

“Saab…?” Kanta asked, confused. “Sakshi madam, yeh…?”

“My guest,” Sakshi said, cheerful, and patted my backside. Like I was a sack of rice. Like I was hers. “He had a long night. Can’t walk yet. I’m taking care of him.”

She took the milk with her free hand, never even swaying. “Thank you, Kanta. And Kanta ?”

“Ji, madam?”

“If you see me carrying him in the building, you don’t ask. You just smile. Samjhe?”

“Ji… ji madam.”

The door closed. Sakshi walked back to the kitchen, me still slung over her shoulder like a trophy. She set the milk down, then finally slid me down her front… only to sit on the counter and pull me between her legs, my feet dangling a foot off the ground, her arms around me again. 

“See?” she whispered, nose to nose with me. “The world knows now. Sakshi’s chhote babu doesn’t walk. He gets carried. Because his Didi is 5’9”, 83 kgs, and done pretending she’s not stronger.”

I was shaking. Not from fear. From the sheer, overwhelming relief of it. Of being seen. Of being claimed. 

“Say it,” she said, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Say you’re helpless. Say you’re captive. Say you’re mine.”

I broke. “I’m helpless,” I sobbed, and it wasn’t sadness. It was joy. “I’m captive, Sakshi Didi. I’m yours. Completely yours. Don’t ever put me down.”

Her eyes went shiny. Then she stood, from the counter, with me in her arms, and jumped down — a little hop, and I screamed, clinging to her. 

She laughed, loud and free and wild. “I won’t! I won’t, Sumit! You’re never touching the ground again unless you beg me!”

She carried me to the balcony, to the living room, to the bedroom, cycling through holds like she was showing off her favorite toy. Bridal carry. Over the shoulder. Cradled like a baby. Sitting on her hip with my legs wrapped around her waist. Each time I thought ‘this is it, this is the strongest she can hold me’, she’d prove me wrong. 

Finally, she laid down on the big sofa, yanked me into her lap sideways, and wrapped both arms and both legs around me. A full-body cage. I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. 

“Now,” she said, kissing my hair, my forehead, my eyelids. “Chai is done. Breakfast is next. And you…” She squeezed, and I felt every one of her 21 extra kilos, every inch of her 6-inch height advantage. “You are not walking to the table. You are not reaching for the toast. You are not doing anything but staying right here, helpless in your Didi’s captivity. Because I’m free, Sumit. And I choose to use my freedom to keep you.”

I went limp in her arms. Surrendered. Complete. “Yes, Sakshi Didi,” I whispered. “Keep me.”

“Good boy,” she purred, and rocked me. “My good, helpless, captured boy. Now open up. Didi will feed you breakfast.”

And she did. With me locked in her lap, with her strength all around me, with the whole world beyond her flat knowing that Sumit the company manager was now just Sumit the carried. 

And I’d never been happier to be powerless. 

---

Her arms tightened around me the second I shifted. Like she could read my mind. 

“Sakshi… didi,” I said, testing the word again. It felt strange. Wrong. Right. “I… I need to use the bathroom. To freshen up.”

She went still. For three whole heartbeats, the only sound was her breath and the milk still warming on the stove. Then she looked down at me, 5’9” of pure, unyielding woman, and raised one eyebrow. 

“Walk?” she said. Soft. Dangerous. “Alone?”

I swallowed. “I… yes? I mean, I’m 42, Sakshi. I can—”

Her laugh cut me off. Not mean. Not teasing. Just… sure. “Can you?” She shifted me in her lap, bouncing me once like I weighed nothing. “My chhote babu, 62 kgs of man who fell asleep in my arms twice now, wants to walk to the bathroom?”

She stood in one fluid motion, and I was airborne before I could blink. Not bridal carry this time. She had me tucked under one arm, like a football, my legs dangling in front of her, my head and arms hanging down her back. Carry-a-toddler-who’s-throwing-a-fit style. Except I wasn’t throwing a fit. I was just… hers. 

“Sakshi!” I yelped, face burning. “Put me down! I can walk, I swear!”

“Mmm,” she hummed, walking toward the bathroom, completely unbothered by my 62 kgs swinging from her side. “I’m sure you can. Rajeev, my ex-husband could walk too. He insisted on it. Even with a sprained ankle. Even when I offered to carry him. You know what he said?”

She stopped outside the bathroom door, and hoisted me. Suddenly I was upright, but my feet still didn’t touch the ground. She had me by the waist, holding me up against her chest, my face level with hers, my legs dangling. 

“He said, ‘Sakshi, I’m the man. I walk myself.’” Her voice went quiet. “Three months later, he was gone. Couldn’t stand a wife who didn’t need him to be big.”

Her forehead touched mine. “So no, Sumit. You don’t walk to the bathroom. Not in my house. Not when I’m here. Because I’m free now. And free means I carry what’s mine.”

She pushed the bathroom door open with her hip and stepped in, still holding me. Set me down on the closed toilet lid like I was a doll. But she didn’t let go. One huge hand stayed splayed on my chest, pinning me there. 

“Now,” she said, and her thumb brushed my collarbone. Gentle. Possessive. “We compromise. You want privacy? You get it. But you don’t walk to get it.”

She knelt. Knelt, so her face was level with mine sitting down. “I’ll run your bath. I’ll set out your towel. I’ll wait outside. But Sumit… if you fall, if you slip, if you take too long…” Her hand slid up to cup my jaw. “I’m coming in. And I’m carrying you out. Naked, dripping, whatever. Because you’re mine to protect now. Samjhe, chhote babu?”

I was trembling. Not from fear. From the sheer, overwhelming weight of being cared for like this. Owned like this. 

“But…” I whispered. “The ‘didi’ thing. You’re 37. I’m 42. How do I…?”

Her smile was slow. Wicked. Tender. “Ahhh. That.” She leaned in, kissed my forehead like she was blessing me. Her hand slid down to my hand, and she lifted it, pressing my palm flat against her bicep. It was huge. Warm. Marble under silk. 

“I’m not your equal, Sumit,” she said softly. “I’m your better. Taller. Heavier. Stronger. I can carry you for hours and not sweat. I can pin you with one finger. I can lift you with one arm.”

She flexed, just a little, and my hand rose with her muscle. Helpless. 

“So you call me Didi,” she said. “Because I’m the big one. Because I’m the one who carries. Because in this flat, age doesn’t matter. Power does. And I have it all.”

She stood, and suddenly I was being lifted again — under my arms this time, like a child being plucked from a chair. My feet dangled a foot off the tile. 

“But,” she whispered, nose to nose with me, “if ‘Didi’ makes my babu sad… you can call me something else. When we’re alone. When you’re good.”

She set me down in the bathtub. Still with her clothes on. Still dry. Still holding me. “You can call me Sakshi Maa.”

My whole world stopped. 

“Maa?” I breathed. 

She nodded, eyes blazing. “Because that’s what I want to be. Not your wife. Not your equal. Your holder. Your keeper. The woman who bathes you, feeds you, carries you, sleeps you in her arms. The way a mother does her baby. Except you’re 42. And you chose this.”

She stepped back, finally. One step. “So. Bathe. Take your time. But remember…” She pointed at the door. “I’m right here. And if I hear one splash that sounds like trouble, I’m in here, and you’re over my shoulder before you can say ‘Sakshi Didi’.”

She closed the door. Didn’t lock it. 

I sat in the empty tub, shaking, and realized two things: 

One: I was harder than I’d been in years, and it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with surrender. 

Two: I didn’t want her to wait outside. 

I reached for the taps with a shaky hand. “Sakshi… Didi?” I called. My voice wobbled. “Will you… will you run it for me? I… I don’t want to do it alone.”

The door opened instantly. Like she’d been leaning on it. 

Her smile could have powered the sun. “My good boy,” she whispered. And she stepped in, kicked the door shut behind her, and came to kneel by the tub. 

She didn’t touch me. Not yet. She just turned on the water, tested it with her wrist, and looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world. 

“Tell me,” she said, while the tub filled. “Tell me you’re mine, Sumit. Say ‘Sakshi Didi, I’m yours’. And I’ll bathe you myself. I’ll carry you out. I’ll never make you walk again.”

I looked up at her. 37 years old. 5’9”. 83 kgs of strength and freedom and terrifying, wonderful love. 

And I said it. Finally. Freely. 

“Sakshi Didi… I’m yours.”

She exhaled like I’d given her the world. Then she rolled up her sleeves, and her big, strong hands reached for me. 

“Then come here, chhote babu,” she said, voice thick. “Let Didi take care of you.”

And I went. Helpless. Captive. Home.