A Dream Ride 4

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



A Dream Ride 4 :


The Bath.


“Sakshi Didi… I’m yours.”

The words hung in the steam, and something broke open in her face. Not triumph. Relief. Like she’d been holding her breath since the taxi ride two weeks ago. 

“Then up you come, chhote babu,” she whispered. 

Her hands went to the hem of my kurta first. Big hands. Capable hands. The same hands that had carried me 20 kms without trembling. Now they trembled. 

“You’re sure?” she asked, eyes searching mine. “Once Didi starts, she doesn’t stop until you’re clean. Until you’re hers.”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, my throat too tight. 

She lifted the kurta. I raised my arms like a child — like her child — and the cotton slipped off, up, over my head. The bathroom air hit my skin and I shivered. Not from cold. From being seen. 

Sakshi made a sound low in her throat. Not lust. Reverence. 

“So small,” she murmured, folding the kurta like it was precious. “So light. My babu.”

Her fingers went to the button of my trousers next. I should have been humiliated. A 42-year-old man, sitting in a tub, letting a woman five years younger undress him. But there was no shame in her eyes. Only wonder. Like she was unwrapping a gift she’d waited her whole life for. 

She popped the button. Slowly. Like each movement was a promise. “Lift,” she said softly, and her hands slid under my hips. 

I obeyed. Of course I obeyed. I was hers. 

She lifted me clear off the porcelain with one arm, just enough, and with the other she eased the trousers down my legs, down, down, until they pooled at her knees. I was in my vest and underwear now. The last barriers. 

Sakshi set me back down, gentle as a prayer. Her eyes never left mine. “Last one, Sumit. Then you’re all mine. Still sure?”

“Sakshi Didi,” I whispered, and my voice broke on it. “Please.”

She nodded once. Then she hooked her fingers in the waistband of my vest and peeled it up, over my ribs, over my chest, over my head. The air was warmer now from the running water, but I still shivered. 

“Hay Ram,” she breathed. Her hand hovered over my chest, not touching. “You’re… you’re perfect.”

Her palm finally landed, flat over my heart. It covered half my chest. “So small under here. But beating so strong for me.”

One piece left. 

She didn’t rush. Sakshi never rushed when she had me. She slid off the edge of the tub and knelt on the bathmat, bringing her face level with mine. Her hands went to the waistband of my underwear. Her knuckles brushed my hips and I gasped. 

“Look at me,” she said. 

I did. 5’9” of woman, eyes wet, jaw set, shoulders broad enough to block out the world. 

“I’ve got you,” she promised. And then she pulled. 

Slow. Inch by inch. Down my thighs, past my knees, off my feet. The last of me, bared to her. To the woman who’d carried me in a taxi, who’d divorced her husband for the right to be strong, who’d chosen me to be weak for. 

I should have covered myself. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Her gaze was a blanket, her presence a shield. 

Sakshi didn’t look away. She didn’t leer. She beheld. Then, slowly, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to my knee. 

“Thank you,” she whispered to my skin. “For trusting Didi.”

She stood, and the water was perfect now. She tested it again, then held out her hand. “Arms up, babu.”

I lifted them. She slid her arms under mine, around my back, and lifted. Dead lift, from sitting to standing, my naked body coming up flush against her clothed one. My feet didn’t touch the ground the whole time. She held me there, suspended, my face buried in her neck, and stepped into the tub with me still in her arms. 

Only then did she lower us both, sitting down with me straddling her lap, my back to her chest. The water rose around us, hot, enveloping. Her arms came around me, one across my chest, one across my stomach. Locking me in. Holding me up. 

“Shhh,” she said when I shuddered. “Didi’s got you. Can’t fall. Can’t drown. Can’t go anywhere.”

She reached for the soap. Lathered her hands until they were white with foam. And then she began. 

Her palms on my shoulders first. Big, slick, kneading away weeks of tension I didn’t know I carried. Down my arms, lifting each one to wash, to kiss the inside of my wrist with foam-covered lips. Across my chest, circles that were worship, not seduction. Her thumbs brushed over my ribs and I gasped — I was so small there, and her hands spanned me so easily. 

“Such a good boy,” she murmured against my ear. “So still for Didi. So trusting.”

Her hands dipped lower, to my stomach. She washed me like I was precious. Like I was hers. Every inch, every hollow, every scar from a life spent pretending to be big. 

“Legs up,” she said, tapping my knee. I obeyed, and she pulled my leg across her lap, washing from ankle to thigh with both hands. Her grip was firm. Unshakeable. I could have fought. I couldn’t have won. And God, I didn’t want to. 

She did the other leg. Then, impossibly gently, she had me lean forward, my chest against my knees, and her soapy hands washed my back. Up and down my spine, as if she was memorizing me. 

“You’re safe,” she kept whispering. “You’re mine. You’re safe.”

When she was done, she pulled the shower attachment down and rinsed me, her free arm still banded around my waist so I couldn’t slip. Warm water cascaded over us both. She was soaked to the skin, saree clinging to every curve, but she didn’t care. 

“Last part,” she said, and her voice shook. She reached for the shampoo. “Head back, babu. Rest on Didi.”

I did. My head on her shoulder, my eyes closed, completely helpless, completely hers. She worked the lather into my hair with fingers that were strong enough to lift me but gentle enough to not pull. Massaging my scalp until I was melting, until little sounds I’d never made before were escaping my throat. 

“Good,” she breathed. “Let go. Didi’s here.”

She rinsed my hair, then just… held me. In the water, in her lap, in her world. My naked body cradled against her clothed one, steam rising around us like a vow. 

“Sumit,” she whispered, lips in my wet hair. “My chhote babu. My captured boy. Are you happy?”

I turned my face into her neck, hiding, seeking, belonging. “Yes, Sakshi Didi,” I sobbed, and it was true. “Yes. Don’t let go. Never let go.”

Her arms became iron and silk. “Never,” she promised. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

She stood, water streaming, with me still in her arms. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just lifted me out of the tub like I weighed nothing, like I was hers to carry from water to air to towel to bed for the rest of our lives. 

And I let her. 

Because I was helpless. 

Because I was captive. 

Because I was home. 


She stepped out of the tub with me still in her arms. 

Didn’t set me down. Didn’t even shift her grip. Just rose from the water like a goddess from the sea, 83 kgs of woman holding 62 kgs of man like I was a wet, trembling feather. My arms were around her neck on instinct. My legs dangled. My naked skin was against her soaked saree, and I could feel every powerful line of her through the clinging fabric. 

“Shhh,” Sakshi murmured, when I shivered. “Didi’s got you. No floor for my babu. Not today.”

She walked. Three steps to the bathmat, but my feet never touched it. She turned, and with her free hand yanked a huge, fluffy towel off the rack. White. Thick. Smelled like her — sandalwood and warmth. 

Still holding me with one arm — one arm, my whole body cradled against her hip like I was nothing — she flicked the towel open with a snap. Then, in one smooth motion, she wrapped it around me and hoisted me higher, until I was chest-to-chest with her again, my face buried in her neck, the towel cocooning me from shoulders to knees. 

“There,” she breathed. “All covered. All Didi’s.”

She didn’t put me down to dry me. Why would she? Putting me down meant letting go. And Sakshi Didi didn’t let go. 

She sat on the closed toilet lid, and I went with her, landing in her lap like I’d been born there. I was straddling her again, towel-wrapped, my wet hair dripping onto her already-soaked blouse. She didn’t care. 

“Arms up,” she said softly. 

I obeyed. Always, now. 

She gathered the towel around me tighter, then started patting. Not rubbing. Patting. Like I was a baby fresh from his bath. Her huge hands moved over my back, my shoulders, my arms, through the towel. Drying me without ever exposing me, without ever releasing me. 

“Good boy,” she whispered each time I shivered. “So good for Didi. Letting her take care of you.”

She got to my legs. Lifted one knee, propping my foot on her thigh, and dried my calf, my ankle, each toe, with such focus it made my chest hurt. Then the other. I was helpless to do anything but sit there, towel-swaddled, and be dried by a woman who could have thrown me over her shoulder and run a mile. 

“Head,” she said. 

I tilted it back, and her fingers were in my hair, towel-scrubbing gently, massaging my scalp again until my eyes rolled back. “My chhote babu,” she murmured. “All clean. All soft. All mine.”

When she was done, she didn’t unwrap me. She just held me. Towel and all, cradled against her chest, her chin on my head. Her saree was soaked through. She had to be cold. She didn’t mention it. 

“Sakshi Didi,” I whispered, my voice muffled against her. “You’re all wet.”

She laughed, low and happy. “And you’re all dry. That’s how it works. Didi gets wet. Babu stays warm.”

She stood again — god, she was never going to stop standing with me in her arms — and walked us to the sink. The mirror was fogged, but she wiped it with her free hand and looked at us. 

“See?” she said. “Look how perfect.”

I looked. 

A 5’9” woman, soaked, magnificent, with a 5’3” man wrapped in a towel like a baby, clinging to her neck, feet nowhere near the floor. Her arms were around me, towel and all. I was completely hidden, completely held. There was no me without her in that reflection. Only us. 

“Say it,” she whispered to the mirror, to me. “Say who you belong to.”

I met her eyes in the glass. And I didn’t hesitate. 

“I belong to Sakshi Didi,” I said. “I’m helpless. I’m captive. And I don’t want to be free.”

The sound she made was broken. Then she was kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my wet hair, through the towel. “Then Didi’s never putting you down,” she swore. “Not to walk. Not to stand. Not unless you beg. And even then…” She hefted me higher, nuzzling my ear. “Even then, I’ll probably just carry you to where you want to go.”

She walked out of the bathroom with me still bundled up, still off the ground, still hers. 

“Now,” she said, heading for the bedroom. “Didi’s going to get dressed. And you…” She kissed my towel-covered shoulder. “You are going to stay right here in my arms, while I do it. Because my babu doesn’t get cold. My babu doesn’t touch the floor. My babu just gets held.”

She sat on a red plastic chair, arranged me in her lap like I was the most precious thing she owned, and reached for her clothes with one hand. The other never left me. 

I was dry. I was warm. I was utterly, completely, helplessly captive. 

And I’d never been happier. 

She didn’t put me down. 

Of course she didn’t. 

Sakshi Didi shifted on the chair, settling back against the headboard, and I went with her — towel-wrapped, 62 kgs of man curled sideways across her lap like I’d always lived there. Her arms stayed around me. One under my knees, one across my back. A living chair made of 83 kgs of strength and warmth. 

“Comfortable, babu?” she murmured, nuzzling my damp hair. Her wet saree was cold against my towel, but her skin underneath was a furnace. 

I nodded, not trusting my voice. How could I be anything but comfortable? I was off the floor. Off my feet. Off the hook for being a ‘man’ for the first time in 42 years. 

“Good,” she said. “Because Didi needs to change. And you…” She squeezed me, just enough to remind me who was holding who. “You’re going to help.”

She reached for her cupboard with one hand. The other never left me. Never even loosened. I was pinned, safe, hers, while she pulled out sarees. Red. Green. Peacock blue. She held each one up against herself, then looked down at me for approval. 

“Which one, Sumit? Which one does my babu like on his Didi?”

My face burned. I was naked under this towel, in the lap of a woman who could snap me in half, and she was asking me to choose her clothes. Like I had any power here. 

“The… the blue,” I whispered. 

She beamed. “Blue it is.” 

She didn’t stand. She didn’t set me aside. She just… started. Right there, with me in her lap. 

First the blouse. She shrugged out of the wet one, and I got a flash of broad, strong shoulders, of a back that could carry me for miles. Then, with me still cradled against her chest, she reached behind herself and hooked the new blouse. I felt her muscles move under me as she pulled it on. Felt her shift me, lift me with one arm so she could slide the other arm through a sleeve. 

“Sakshi Didi,” I gasped, hiding my face in her neck. “I… I can see…”

“Good,” she said, utterly unashamed. “Let my babu see. Didi’s not shy. Didi’s strong. And Didi’s babu stays right where he is.”

She finished the blouse, then looked down at me. “Hold this,” she said, and pressed the peacock blue saree into my towel-covered hands. “Keep it off the floor. Didi doesn’t let her things touch the floor. Especially not her babu.”

I clutched the silk like it was a lifeline. She started pleating, tucking, wrapping — all while I was in her lap. Every movement jostled me, reminded me I was on her, because of her. Her stomach flexed under me as she leaned. Her thighs tensed as she shifted. Her bicep jumped as she reached around. 

I was getting a front-row show to her strength. And she was my seat. 

Halfway through, she paused. “Arms up,” she said. 

I lifted them. She slipped the saree over my head, then hers, using me as a post to help her drape it. My face was inches from hers. I could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Could see the love there. 

“Tell me,” she whispered, while her hands worked behind her back, pinning the saree. “Tell me who’s dressing who, Sumit.”

“You’re dressing yourself,” I said, breathless. “And… and you’re holding me.”

“Mmm. And why?”

I swallowed. “Because… because I’m helpless. Because I’m yours. Because you don’t put me down.”

“Good boy.” She kissed my nose. “My smart, helpless boy.”

She finished, adjusted the pallu, and then looked at us in the mirror across the room. Her — 5’9”, fresh, powerful, in peacock blue. Me — 5’3”, towel-wrapped, damp, and completely engulfed in her lap. 

“We match,” she said softly. “Strong and small. Big and held. Didi and babu.”

She turned then, finally, but only to walk to her dresser. With me still in her arms, of course. Bridal carry now, towel still around me, my head on her shoulder. She picked up a comb with her free hand and started running it through my hair. 

“Can’t have my babu looking messy,” she murmured, combing, soothing, owning. “Not when Didi’s going to carry him to breakfast.”

“Sakshi Didi,” I whispered, melting. “You’re… you’re not going to let me get dressed?”

She paused. Looked at me. And smiled, slow and wicked and full of love. 

“Why would I?” she asked. “You’re perfect like this. Wrapped up. In my arms. Where no one can see you but me.”

She set the comb down and hugged me tighter, towel and all. “Besides,” she said into my hair. “If I dress you, you might get ideas about walking. And we can’t have that, can we, chhote babu?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. 

“Good,” she said. “Then Didi will carry you to the kitchen. And feed you. And after…” She kissed my temple. “After, Didi might let you pick out her bangles. If you’re very good. If you ask nicely. If you promise to stay right here.”

She turned and walked out of the bedroom, me bundled in her arms, naked under a towel, utterly captive, utterly content. 

My feet had not touched the floor once since she’d picked me up from the bath. 

And if Sakshi Didi had her way, they never would again.