Soft Little Girl 3

(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 two parts "Soft Little Girl 1 and 2" which was published in this platform about 1 year back.
For readers who have already read the first two parts earlier, I would like to inform that I have made slight changes in the ages of the lady characters. Nandini is 45 years in the story as against the protagonist's age of 43. And the difference in age between Nanny and the protagonist is 15 years.)


I woke to the sound of her breathing. Not mine—hers. Deep, steady, like a tide I could drift on. My cheek was still pressed to the curve of her shoulder, her dupatta tucked around me like I was something fragile she’d been asked to guard.

“Good morning, chhoti si gudiya,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. Her arms, which had never loosened all night, tightened just enough to remind me I was held.

I blinked, the room still dim. “You… didn’t put me down?”

“Why would I?” She shifted, sliding her legs off the side of the cane chair, and in one smooth, practiced motion, stood up—with me still cradled chest-to-chest. My feet dangled a good six inches off the floor. “I told you last night. You belong here now.”

My arms found her neck on instinct. “Nandini, your back…”

“My back is built for this, baby.” She kissed my temple and started walking. “First stop: tea. But my little doll doesn’t walk to the kitchen. He rides.”


The guesthouse kitchen smelled of cardamom and damp wood. She set the kettle on, then—without breaking stride—hitched me higher, shifting me to her hip like a mother with a toddler. One massive arm banded under my thighs, the other free to reach for cups.

“You’re so light I can stir chai one-handed,” she teased, demonstrating. The sway of her hip as she moved from stove to counter made me bob like a boat. My 64 kilos were nothing to her 92.

I buried my face in her neck, mortified and molten at once. “People would think I’m your son.”

“You are my baby today,” she said, unapologetic. She dipped, bending to grab biscuits from a low shelf, and I clung tighter as the world tilted. “See? Even my niece can’t sit this pretty on my hip anymore. She’s too long now. You… you’re perfect travel size.”


After tea, the mist had cleared enough to show the valley. “You should see the view from the upper path,” she said. Before I could stand, she turned her back to me and crouched. “Up. Climb on.”

“Nandini, I’m 43—”

“And I’m 45 and can carry a sack of rice up three flights. Come here.”

I obeyed. The moment my chest touched her broad back and my legs wrapped around her waist, she straightened with a grunt that was pure satisfaction, not strain. Her hands locked under my knees, hauling me higher until my chin rested on her shoulder.

“See? My back’s wider than your whole torso,” she said, starting up the stone path. Each step was steady, powerful. My feet didn’t even graze the grass. “When we reach the prayer flags, I’ll show you the doli carry. That’s how brides used to be carried in the hills. But you’ll be my doli.”

I couldn’t speak. The word bride shouldn’t have made my stomach flutter, but it did. Small. Claimed. Safe.

At the crest, the wind snapped the colored flags. She set me down only to scoop me up sideways—one arm behind my shoulders, the other under my knees, the classic bridal lift. I gasped at how exposed it felt, how little.

“Relax, sweetheart,” she whispered, her biceps flexing against my side. “This is how precious things are carried. Not luggage. Not furniture. You.”

She walked a slow circle under the flags, letting the fabric whip around us. My head lolled against her chest, listening to her heart again. No one could see us. And yet, I didn’t care if they did.

“You could drop me,” I said, barely audible.

“I could also hold the moon if it asked nicely,” she answered. “But I won’t drop my chhoti si gudiya.”


Later, she had errands. “The vegetable wali knows me,” she said, grabbing a shawl. “But she’s never seen my baby boy.”

Before I could protest, she whisked me up in a cradle hold—head in the crook of her elbow, legs draped over her other arm, like I was five years old with a fever. She threw the shawl over both of us, creating a cocoon.

“Nandini!” I hissed. “I can walk through the bazaar!”

“Shhh,” she soothed, already striding out the gate. “Today you don’t have to be Mr. Ayush, Project Manager. Today you’re just mine to carry.”

The bazaar was alive—vendors, children, dogs. And there I was, 5’3”, 43 years old, peeking out from the shawl as this towering woman carried me past the potato carts. The vegetable wali did stare. Then she smiled wide.

“Hai, Nandini didi! Kiska beta?”

“Aur kisika nahi, mera,” Nandini beamed, bouncing me lightly. “Bas ab jaake mila. Look how he fits, na?”

I wanted to die. I also never wanted her to stop. Her arm was a throne. Her chest was a wall against the world.

That evening, rain returned. The power flickered. She lit candles, then sat cross-legged on the floor with a thick quilt. She patted her lap.

“Come. Koala time.”

I crawled to her, and she pulled me in face-to-face, my legs straddling her lap, arms around her neck, her arms around my waist. Chest to chest. My feet didn’t touch the ground. Hers did—planted, immovable.

“Talk to me,” she said, rocking us slowly. “Tell me what little Ayush wants tonight.”

And I did. I told her about board meetings where my voice felt too small. About hotel rooms where the bed felt too big. About the way Maya Didi’s lap in that Alto was the last time I’d felt *contained*… until her.

She listened, one hand spanning my entire back. “Then we’ll make up for all those years,” she promised. “Stair carries when you’re tired. Shoulder rides when you’re happy. Cradle holds when you’re sad. Piggyback when you want to see the world from higher up. I’ve got a carry for every mood, baby.”

The candlelight threw our shadow on the wall—one big shape, with a smaller shape tucked inside it. It didn’t look absurd. It looked right.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered against my hair, “I’ll carry you down to the stream. I’ll wade in with you in my arms so your feet don’t get cold. And if you fall asleep, I’ll carry you back like this… all the way.”

I nodded, already drowsy, my 43-year-old body gone soft, my 15-year-old heart finally, finally home.

“Good boy,” she murmured, standing in one fluid lift, taking me with her. “Let’s get my gudiya to bed.”

And she did—carrying me like I weighed nothing, like I was nothing but hers to hold.



Next morning. I didn’t realise when she moved closer. One moment, Nandini was sitting across from me in that warm amber glow of the living room, and the next, she was beside me on the couch, tucking one long leg under herself.

“Ayush…” she said my name slowly, as if tasting it. Her voice had that careful gentleness I’d only heard from her a few times before. “You’ve been carrying this fantasy for a while, haven’t you?”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the rug. “It’s… weird.”

Before I could shrink into myself further, I felt her hand under my chin, tilting my face toward hers. “No. It’s not weird. It’s human. And,” her lips curved slightly, “it’s adorable.”

She didn’t just sit there talking. She eased an arm behind my back, the other under my knees, and in one smooth motion, I was off the couch—scooped up in her lap like a book she intended to read slowly. I didn’t fight it. My heart was pounding, but there was a strange calm in letting her hold me that way.

“You know,” she began, her breath brushing my temple, “fantasies like yours… they often come from a need that goes deeper than the surface. It’s not just about the act—it’s about the feeling behind it.”

I swallowed. “What feeling?”

She smiled, as if she’d been expecting the question. “Safety. Surrender. The rare moment when you don’t have to be the one holding the world up… because someone else is holding you.”

Her words slid through me like warm honey. And her arms tightened just slightly, as if to prove her point. I could feel the slow, even rhythm of her breathing against my side.

“You’ve been the dependable one for so long,” she went on, “that the idea of being cared for—physically, completely—feels both unfamiliar and irresistible.” She shifted me slightly, cradling me more securely, my head resting against the curve of her shoulder. “You’re not craving weakness, Ayush. You’re craving relief. Trust.”

My voice cracked a little. “And you… you don’t think it’s weird?”

Her laugh was soft, low. “No. I think it’s beautiful. And honestly…” her eyes glinted mischievously, “I like the way you fit here.”

She bounced me ever so slightly, not enough to be teasing in public, but just enough to make me aware of how easily she held me. “Your mind tells you you’re too old for this. But your body—your heart—they remember what it’s like to be safe in someone’s arms.”

Her words lingered in the air, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to hide behind a joke or deflect. I let her keep holding me, feeling the truth in every heartbeat.


Her arms didn’t falter once as she adjusted me in her lap. The warmth of her hold made it hard to remember that I was a grown man letting himself be carried.

“You know,” she said after a pause, brushing a stray hair from my forehead, “I never told you this, but… I majored in Psychology at the university.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Which means I can recognise exactly what’s going on with you, Ayush.”

My ears burned. “So… I’m a case study now?”

Her laugh was low and soft, but her grip around me stayed steady. “No, you’re not a case. You’re… someone whose mind and body are asking for the same thing. Do you know how rare that is?”

I shook my head.

She leaned in a little, her voice warm and deliberate. “You’ve built a life where you’re always responsible, always in control. But deep down, you crave moments where you can let go completely—where someone else carries you, literally and emotionally.”

Her arm under my knees shifted, and before I realised, she had risen from the couch with me in her arms. I instinctively held onto her shoulder, my cheek brushing against her collarbone.

“This isn’t about weakness,” she continued as she walked slowly across the room. “It’s about trust. You’re letting me take your weight… because you know I won’t drop you.”

I swallowed. “And you… like this?”

She glanced down at me, her eyes holding mine. “I do. Very much. Because every time you let me hold you like this, Ayush… you’re telling me something words can’t.”

Her arms tightened slightly, and I realised I wasn’t just hearing a psychological explanation—I was living it, every second she carried me.

Her arms didn’t loosen for a second as she moved back to the sofa, still holding me as if I weighed nothing. She sat down with me across her lap again, one hand resting gently on my back.

“You know what’s interesting?” she began, tilting her head slightly. “Every time you’ve told me a story from your life… I can see the pattern.”

I frowned. “Pattern?”

She smiled knowingly. “Remember Mrs. Roberts? You were just ten. She sat you on her lap in that big armchair… and you told me how you felt so safe, so… looked after. That wasn’t just a one-off. That moment planted a seed.”

I felt my face grow warm.

“And then,” she continued softly, “when you were fifteen, your twelve-year-old cousin—already taller and stronger than you—scooped you up without warning. You said you lay helpless in her arms, not wanting her to let go, even though you pretended to protest.”

I gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “You remember everything.”

“Of course I do,” she said, her voice lowering just enough to make me feel the weight of every word. “And then there’s your nanny… the one who cared for you from the time you were little until you were grown. You told me how she always towered over you, and how, even when you were an adult, she would carry you as if you were still her boy. That’s not something you forget.”

I swallowed, looking down at her hands—so steady under me.

“These aren’t random,” Nandini went on, brushing her thumb along my forearm. “Each time, you felt a mix of safety, care… and something deeper. Your body learned that being held like this meant comfort. Your mind learned it meant trust. And now, here you are, letting me carry you, because somewhere inside, you’ve always known it’s exactly where you belong.”

I couldn’t speak. Her words made me feel both seen and… exposed.

She gave a faint smile, tightening her arms just slightly. “Ayush, this isn’t about wanting to be small. It’s about wanting to be *safe*. And you’ve found someone you trust enough to give you that.”

Her gaze softened, but there was something quietly firm in her tone.
“Ayush,” she said, “I’m not letting you off the hook. I want to hear it. From you. How it *really* felt in those moments.”

I shifted slightly on her lap, but her arms didn’t loosen. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” she smiled faintly, “and you have to stay right here while you tell me. No hiding behind coffee mugs or pacing around.”

I gave a mock groan, but the warmth of her body beneath me and the steady pressure of her hold made it impossible to actually want to leave.

She started gently. “Mrs. Roberts. Ten years old. What’s the first thing you remember?”

I exhaled slowly. “Her arms were… huge to me back then. She sat me sideways, and her sweater smelled of lavender. She patted my back the whole time. I remember feeling so… tiny, but also like nothing bad could happen while she was holding me.”

Nandini gave a small, knowing nod, brushing a strand of hair off my forehead. “And the cousin?”

That one made my ears burn. “I was fifteen, she was twelve… but she’d grown tall and… strong. She just picked me up, like a bride, laughing. I pretended to struggle, but the truth? I didn’t want to break the moment. It was… strangely nice to feel her arms under me.”

She grinned. “Mm-hm. Now… the nanny.”

I hesitated. “She was there all my life. Even when I was a grown man, she’d call me *beta* and lift me just to tease me. But every time she did, I felt—” I broke off, searching for the word. “—like I was still hers. Like I never stopped being her boy.”

Nandini’s arms tightened, pulling me slightly closer until my temple rested against her shoulder. “And now you’re here,” she murmured, “in my lap, telling me this. And I think you know why.”

I could feel her heartbeat under my cheek. “Because I trust you,” I said quietly. “Because it feels the same… maybe even better.”

Her laugh was low and warm. “Good. Because I’m not putting you down any time soon.”

Nandini didn’t put me down.
In fact, after that last line, she simply shifted her hold — one arm under my thighs, the other snug around my back — and stood up as if I weighed nothing.

I felt my stomach drop slightly as she rose, then settle as she began walking slowly across the room. The sway of her hips and the effortless steadiness of her arms made it impossible to ignore how small I was in her grip.

“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “I never told you about my marriage.”

I tilted my head to look at her. “You were married?”

“For exactly six months,” she replied with a dry smile. “It was a mistake from the start. Wrong man, wrong reasons. I filed for divorce the day I realised I was becoming someone I didn’t even recognise.”

Her arms flexed just slightly, as if she was making sure I was secure while she talked. “After that, I kept the *Mrs.* in my name. Not because I was holding onto him. But because it keeps away the overbearing types who think every single woman is fair game.”

I let out a short breath of understanding. “I get that.”

She stopped walking for a second, adjusting me a little higher against her chest. Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “And now… here I am. Holding a man who’s younger, much shorter, and—” she gave me a playful squeeze that made my face heat “—let’s be honest, much weaker than me.”

I gave a half-smile, half-protest. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Her smile softened. “But I like you, Ayush. I like the way you think, the way you listen. And…” She glanced down at me, her eyes lingering. “…I like the way you fit here. In my arms. Like you were always meant to be.”

My mouth went dry. All I could manage was, “That’s… not something I’m used to hearing.”

She began walking again, slower this time, almost like we were dancing without music. “Get used to it,” she murmured. “Because I’m not letting go of you easily.”

She carried me over to the corner of the room where a wide, cushioned armchair sat angled toward the window. The evening light was soft now, filtering in through the curtains, turning the whole space gold.

Instead of putting me down, she sat first — moving with that careful, instinctive ease — and settled me right across her lap. My legs hung over one side, my back against her armrest-side, my shoulder against her chest.

Her arms wrapped naturally around me, one behind my shoulders, the other loosely over my knees. It was absurdly comfortable. I’d never sat like this with anyone my whole adult life, and yet there I was — not resisting, not even thinking of resisting.

“I know you don’t get moments like this,” she said quietly, her hand resting on my forearm. “I can tell you’ve been carrying yourself alone for a long time. In more ways than one.”

I didn’t reply immediately. My head had fallen slightly against her collarbone, and her perfume — warm, woody, faintly floral — was doing strange things to my sense of time.

She glanced down at me, her voice softer still. “Ayush, you’re the first person in years I’ve let into my personal space like this. I don’t… I don’t give this to just anyone.”

I swallowed, my own voice low. “And I’m the first man you’ve held like this in…?”

Her lips curved. “In forever.” She brushed an errant strand of hair from my forehead, her fingertips light against my skin. “You fit, Ayush. You fit in a way I didn’t even know I was looking for.”

A long silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. The warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her breath, and the occasional small squeeze of her arm around me made the moment feel like it could last an entire evening.

Finally, she tilted her head slightly, looking out the window. “You can stay here a while,” she murmured. “No rush. No expectations. Just… stay.”

And so I did.

Nandini sat in silence for a while after telling me about her marriage. The soft golden lamp on the side table painted her face in a warm, almost melancholy light. I could see she wasn’t someone who opened up easily. And yet, here she was — trusting me with this truth.

“I kept the ‘Mrs.’ because it keeps the wolves away,” she said, giving me a half-smile. “But the truth is, I’m very much alone. And now…” Her eyes softened, “…now there’s you.”

My heart thudded. “But… I’m younger than you. And… much smaller.”

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes, Ayush. You’re younger, shorter, and you perfectly fit in my lap. But I like you. I like how you make me feel — and I like how you let me make you feel.”

There was a silence — one of those moments where the air grows heavy, but not in a bad way. Then she stood up from her armchair and eased me slowly down from her arms.

“Just give me two minutes”, she said. “I'll just be back.”

I went and stood by the window, looking outside. Somehow I felt very light, very relieved. I still couldn't believe that I opened out so much to Nandini.

I heard her footsteps approaching. I turned to face her. 

She came to me and put her arms around me. She hugged me to her body. Standing right in front of her tall 5''10" frame, with my 5'3" height, I had to crane my neck up to look at her eyes. The top of my head was coming only up to her lips. She squeezed me into her body tightly. Since my face was in front of her neck, it went right inside her thick neck. She bent her head down. Her hair fell all around my head. She remained like that for about 2 minutes, engulfing me inside her big body. I had a feeling that she was crying. Then she slowly lifted her head, allowing my face out of her neck. Her eyes were wet. She tilted my face up to look at her and whispered, "Kiss me."

I was mesmerized. I lifted my lips upwards, but her lips were 7 inches above mine. My lips couldn't reach hers. She didn't bend her head down to meet my lips. So I had to stand on tiptoes to try and reach her lips. But I was still falling short. She bent her head down and crushed my lips with a long sensual kiss. My face was turned upwards. I was still standing on my tiptoes. She was hugging me tightly to her front and kissing me hard. Her one hand was behind my back holding me tightly to her body. The other hand was firmly behind my waist. She was pressing forward with her weight. I felt my body arch backwards supported by her strong hands behind my back. She was kissing me hard. I had my arms around her solid waist just to hold on to something. This was odd. A middle aged woman of 45 years hugging a 43 year old adult male from the front, bending him backwards on her arms and kissing him forcefully.

Then without any letup she just bent down and scooped me up in her arms.

She didn’t say a word as she carried me toward her bedroom. I could hear the faint thud of her bare feet on the carpet, feel the rise and fall of her breathing, and the steady beat of her heart against my side.

Something had changed between us — and I knew in that moment, whatever boundaries existed before had vanished.

Her bedroom was lit only by the spill of moonlight through the gauzy curtains. The air smelled faintly of jasmine from the garden and the sandalwood of her skin.

She didn’t put me down. She couldn’t, I realized—not yet. Her arms were locked around me in that same effortless cradle, my back supported by her forearm, my legs draped over her other arm. I was floating, my face tucked against her neck, breathing her in.

“Ayush,” she whispered, her voice rough with something I hadn’t heard before. Not pity. Not teasing. Want. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what this is.”

I couldn’t answer. My lips were still tingling from her kiss, my body arched and weightless in her hold. She walked slowly, deliberately, letting me feel every shift of her muscles, every steady step.

She reached the edge of her wide teak bed and sat—but she didn’t release me. She settled back against the headboard and rearranged me until I was lying lengthwise across her chest, my head on her shoulder, my legs curled along her side. Her dupatta fell around us like a tent.

“You fit here,” she said again, softer now. “You always have. You just didn’t know where ‘here’ was.”

Her hand started moving—slow circles on my back, thumb brushing the nape of my neck. “Tell me what you want tonight,” she murmured. “Not what you think you should want. What little Ayush wants.”

My throat was tight. “I… I want to be held. Like I’m not going anywhere. Like I don’t have to go anywhere.”

She exhaled, and I felt it through her chest. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”