The Frantic Final Check & 6:00 PM Inspection
I spun toward the wall clock. 5:58 PM.
"Two minutes!" I squeaked. "Run—carefully!"
Hiking the lower pleats of our sheer sarees up just an inch so our needle heels wouldn't catch the fabric, Vikram and I scurried out of the rooftop office and down the marble flights of stairs as fast as our 5.5-inch and 7.5-inch stilettos would allow. Our descent sounded like a wind chime caught in a storm—click-clack-clack, chham-chham-chham—our heavy chests bouncing wildly against our swapped blouses and our glass bangles clattering as we gripped the brass banister for dear life.
Reaching the ground floor at 5:59 PM, we skidded to a halt in front of the gilded hallway mirror for a frantic, five-second final check.
Side by side, we looked like a pair of hyper-feminized, obedient dolls caught in a delicious visual contradiction. Our tight ponytails and red sindoor were immaculate. Our twin nose studs, septum rings, chandelier jhumkas, bindis, glass bangles, and glossy lipsticks matched the exact royal-blue and neon-pink shades of our low-draped sheer sarees—while beneath those transparent wraps, our swapped bras, panties, and daringly low-cut blouses announced our complete submission to Mistress’s afternoon whim.
With thirty seconds to spare, Vikram hurried into the kitchen and emerged carrying the heavy silver welcome tray, which held a steaming porcelain cup of fresh cardamom tea and Mistress’s plush velvet house slippers.
We took our positions right inside the entryway foyer, standing hip-to-hip, our bare shoulders brushing. Neither of us dared to speak. Our bodies were still humming with breathless, pent-up tension from our embrace upstairs, our pulses beating steadily against the warm, snug titanium micro-cages locked beneath our sheer sarees.
At 6:00 PM on the dot, the heavy brass deadbolt clicked from the outside, and the front door swung open.
In perfect, practiced unison, Vikram and I smoothed a hand down the pleats of our sheer sarees, rolled our shoulders back so our heavy chests strained proudly against our swapped low-cut blouses, bowed our heads gracefully, and chimed together in sweet, breathless voices:
"Welcome home, Mistress."
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