The Mobile Repairing Boy: Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Block Button

Story so far (Recap)

Meenal's visit to Irfan, a young phone technician, stirs up something forbidden in her life of boredom at home. His lingering look and cryptic comments bring back secret fantasies she thought were dead. When he finds her sexual browsing history, a quiet seduction starts--intimate, uncomfortable, and exciting. She goes back to her duties as a wife, but Irfan's presence haunts her and makes her hungry in a way that her tranquil existence can't satisfy.

Meenal moved through her routine life. The house was in order, Aryan was fed, and Yogesh's shirt was ironed.

At first glance, everything seemed usual. But under it all, her thoughts raced, repeating the last night's her unusual arousal and climax.

She had attempted to set it aside--concentrate on household works --but the inner fire would not die.

Irfan's picture returned every time she shut her eyes: his voice, the intensity of his stare. It was not only physical. It was how he made her feel really seen.

--------

That morning Meenal was helping Aryan to pack up his school bag.

"Mumma, you got your mobile back?", asked Aryan, eyes curious.

Meenal blinked, "What?"

"Your old mobile. You said it was at the shop.", Aryan said.

Meenal: "Not yet. I'll get it today."

(He nods, but watches her face curiously.)

Her mobile then buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Irfan's WhatsApp message.

She froze. Her gut tightened as anxiety and excitement twisted together.

The photo was unmistakable.

The photo showed her saree slipping mid-thigh, exposing the delicate shaded curve of her pelvis, the picture displayed Meenal's whole face with intimate precision.

Under the picture, Irfan's note said:

" Do you remember who last time undressed you like this picture just through his eyes only?"

Her heart raced.

Though her blood ran cold, a darker heat started to rise within her.

---------

She is doing laundry while gazing at her phone.

Meanwhile Yogesh came.

Yogesh (playfully): "Who's making you so busy these days?" You don't even bother me nag like you used to.

(Meenal hastily put down her mobile)

Meenal: "because you are not worth nagging anymore." She said smiling.

---------

As Yogesh left for office, she connected phone to irfan.

"Irfan," she whispered, her voice taut with rage, anxiety, and something more sinister.

"Why did you send this? You have no right. I am married. This is.... wrong."

He laughed, and with teasing smile he said, "Most Hindu husbands worship their wives like goddesses... but forget that even goddesses craved to be touched like women."

The remarks echoed sharper now.

She had heard them before, but this time they hit a nerve.

Yogesh was a nice guy, yet their intimacy had turned cold far apart. His kisses were dutiful, his caresses polite. Had he really touched her or merely followed some ritual?

"You deserve more than frigid bedding and dutiful kisses. Think about someone who knows where your fire dwells and dares to feed it", Irfan murmured quietly, wrapping around her thoughts.

His presence, his voice, his touch all burnt vividly in her head. She had never felt so seen and despised herself for it. "Stop it," she said, breathing fast.

"But Madam ji," he mocked, his voice like a silk trap, " Think it. Reading those juicy stories late at night... Were you genuinely thinking about your husband?

She gasped.

He was correct. Those fantasies she hid--who starred in them? Not Yogesh definitely. A stranger and younger, and more daring.

Someone like Irfan would be ideal.

With a smile in his voice, he remarked, "I'm also writing my own stories. The sort where the older woman are seduced by younger man. The sort where she eventually gives up resisting."

Torn between rage and a strange fascination, she shook.

"Madam ji, come to my shop one lasts time. Let's finish this once for all. I will delete all. But you will have to come once.

She shook her head, attempting to quiet the tempest within. But the heat let her down. "No," she said softly, knowing part of her would leave.

"I will wait. Keep in mind, you desired it. You wanted this."

Body shaking with guilt, confusion and a need that astounded her, she disconnected the mobile.

She might regret this decision, but deep down she longed for what Irfan promised: something her life with Yogesh no longer provided.

She just

-------

Meenal looked at Irfan's message once again in the stillness of her living room later. His words reverberated like a shadow in her head.

"I can see you're still considering it. I am not hurrying you. But I will be waiting. You know where.

The final push. His control becomes tighter. Yet nevertheless, something within her snapped all tightly coiled: rage, shame, excitement.

Trembling, her thumb hovered over his touch. Though fear gnawed at her, the urge to block him was great.

"What if this continued? What if he discovered another way?

She remembered her family, Yogesh, Aryan. The shame, uncertainty, self-hatred. She was no longer that woman--not with him in the equation. She decided with a deep breath.

She blocked his number.

The Line She Crossed:

After blocking her number, she stared the mobile hours. Then again all night long. Again in the morning then.

She was waiting not for relief but for the inevitable blow.

A new number. A new danger. A new message. Any social media scandal. Anything may happen.

But, it never came. No phone calls. No texts. No messengers. Not even a slight indication. Only silence.

That silence terrified her more.

Her stomach sank with every unknown number buzz on her mobile. Her hands would sweat.

Her mind would fly through a nightmare reel: the photo shared, her face revealed, Yogesh's silence developing into wrath, her family's disgrace, Aryan's eyes full of inquiries.

The unknown numbers however, were usually dull. A call from a bank. A sales presentation. A missed call.

But nothing from Irfan.

And in some way, that hurt more.

Initially, she buried herself in the safe, predictable rhythm of her life.

She packed Aryan's tiffin with additional care, and included his preferred parathas. Yogesh's clothing were neatly displayed by her.

Evening aarti saw her smiling with palms folded before the deities.

But her body betrayed her.

The ache hadn't left.

The fire lit by Irfan was still there, under her skin, restless and vicious.

His voice rang in her ears--too young, too daring and too mischievous.

She recalled his words to her as a woman, not a wife, not a mother, not a priestess in a tidy home--but a woman of yearning, of softness, of fire.

When she lay in bed, undisturbed next to her husband, his words came back at night: "You believe those stories make you embarrassed..." but they were your reality, weren't they? Meenal ji, tell me..."

"Do you even recall what it is to be desired without apology?"

When he uttered them at first, she had scoffed. She wished to think she was insulted, repulsed. But those words wrapped around her like smoke. They remained. They held on.

So did the stories.

She would unlock her mobile late at night, when the house fell asleep. Not to text him. But to read.

The stories.

The same ones he had casually found in her mobile browsing history.

The those had been deleted by her. Sworn she would never read. Yet she did. Over and over. She read them with the exhaust on in the bathroom.

The stories of younger guys and elder women. Of eyes hanging too long. Of authority being lost--or surrendered

Every words made her ache with a loneliness that went deeper than skin.

Weeks passed.

Still no words.

She began to question whether he had moved on.

Had he have deleted the photos?

Had he found some other lady to taunt and, to unravel.

Should he have discovered someone else to mock, to untangle.

The thought ought to have provided comfort. But it didn't. It caused envy.

Running errands, she started to take detours quietly. Paths leading her beyond the bazaar. Beyond the mobile repair store.

She never stepped in. Simply walked past. Once, she slowed her pace. She pretended checking her purse.

Meenal was looking to Irfan shop, still holding the leather handbag in her hand.

There was Yogesh call.

Yogesh: "Hey, where are you? Sounds busy."

She walked away from the shop.

Meenal said, "Market... near the veggie stalls," and steadied her voice. I thought of buying some fresh methi."

The lie came so easily.

Yogesh: "Don't forget Aryan's book of drawings."

Meenal: "I won't." I'm just taking my time. "

"Okay," said Yogesh. "Be careful in the market.

Meenal said gently, "I will"

She disconnected her mobile, feeling more guilty.

But, she didn't change her plan.

-------

Her gaze darted to the mobile shop front. Then she spotted him.

Irfan, casual and composed, was talking to a customer through the glass, chuckling at something the man said.

The view struck her like a slap. There he was, totally relaxed, unaffected by the turmoil he had caused in her. No indication of the predator. No glimmer of the passion they had exchanged.

Just a young guy at work.

Hidden behind a parked scooter, she stood motionless for a time. Observing. Hoping he will look up. To feel her. But he did not. He never looked at the street.

And that hurt her in an unnamed way. The hunger simply grew.

Back home, her mind was still with Irfan Mobile shop.

Her body was attempting to communicate a message no one seems to get. Every night, when the home quieted and the world became dark, she felt the animal move once again.

The ache, the heat, memories of what he said, sweeping against her like fingertips in the dark.

She had blocked him. But he lived in her still--in her pulse, in her breath, in the way she pushed her thighs together when no one was looking.

With every passing day, she started to question: Was blocking him a line she finally crossed... or the first line she drew in the sand wishing he would have the courage to cross it once more?"

The Line She Crossed

She tried to forget. She worked more than ever. Once desires awakened, it doesn't return to slumber. It moves like a caged beast.

It whispers when the lights are off and the world calms.

One night, when Aryan was at a friend's sleepover and Yogesh was out of town for a conference, she finally decided.

It was 6:30 pm in the evening.

By 7:10 pm she had showered, dressed, and put on a light perfume she hadn't used in years.

Soft ivory with a red border that clung as she moved, her saree was not loud.

But clearly selected.

At 7:45 pm, she was outside Irfan's shop.

She could hear the soft humming of music. He was alone.

Irfan glanced up from the counter and froze to see her.

"Madam ji."

A slow and unreadable grin spread over his face.

"I believed I was permanently blocked."

" I need to talk".

Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the glass counter.

"The shop closes at eight. No assistant now. Should your phone require immediate attention, I can't help."

She walked closer after meeting his eyes evenly. "Then shutter down," she gently urged, her voice low and constant.

"Some things needs privacy."

Irfan's brows rose in surprise, amusement, and curiosity.

Silent, he strolled to the front and yanked the shutter down with a metal clatter.

The store was locked in a silent cocoon of stress; the hum of the street disappeared.

Turning to face her, he had an unreadable expression.

"Should I be honored or scared?", he asked.

"You said a lot of things", she added, moving closer. "Some of them--" her voice trembled before steadying, "were difficult to hear, still not entirely wrong."

Studying her, he tilted his head. "So, you came for honesty?"

"I have come......" she started then paused. She didn't know how to complete that phrase.

"Are you afraid of what you want?" he asked, his voice in low tone.

"Afraid of how badly you want it?" His gaze met hers, challenging her to acknowledge what had been accumulating inside of her for weeks.

She didn't have to say it. He already understood. His words were a spark to kindling, and the heat that raced through her was both terrifying and exciting.

"No," she said softly, almost inaudibly above the store's buzz.

"I have no fear." Irfan grinned slowly, knowingly, hungrily.

"Then let me see" he said softly.

"Meenal! Show me you are prepared to stop pretending."

This is the first time he called her by her name, not by Madam ji.

Breath trapped between defiance and desire. she stepped forward.

With her shaking fingers, she brushed the edge of his shirt and tugging him closer.

When her lips touched his, the kiss was loss of her restrain rather than a hesitation.

Hungry, Starved.

Moving over her blouse, he sensed the frenzied thrum of her heartbeat under fabric and the fast rising of her breath.

He murmured into her mouth, "Feel that?" That is not fear. That's the truth waking you up."

Deepening the contact, he drew one of her legs around his waist as they pressed together.

The thin fabric of her sari revealed the heat of their bodies as it moved.

One of his hands slid between the folds of her sari, moving across bare skin.

Just enough to make her gently whimper, to make her body lean into the contact looking for more.

His fingers stopped on the dori at her back. He said softly, pulling the string gently till the knot came undone and her blouse came free.

"You tied this morning thinking of me, didn't you?"

Though the cool air touched her skin, it was his gaze--devouring, reverent--that made her shiver.

Her blouse drooped open, exposing more of her to him. Reverent and immoral all at once, he bent forward to kiss the exposed skin.

He murmured,"You were never meant to be hide beneath fabric; you were made to be seen like this. Breathed in. Worshipped."

His hand following the waistband of her petticoat, she moaned as his mouth slid lower. Trembling, her own fingers located the clasp of his belt. Driven by hunger, she fumbled breathlessly. Her fingertips grazed the warmth of him as he finally unbuttoned his trousers; he moaned into her neck.

As he softly pulled at the pallu, her sari fell from her shoulder. Slithering to the ground, it pooled at her feet--an offering, a surrender.

Except for the thinest of clothes, she stood naked; he took them off like revealing secrets. With careful, excruciating control, his fingers slipped under her final barrier and teased, probing her folds.

Meenal's legs buckled a little as he said, "You're soaking for me, Meenal. I have not even begun."

Her body arched toward him and her moans slipped out before she could stop them. "I wanted you... wanted this," she admitted, voice weak and exposed.

Instead of words, he reacted with motion--lifting her effortlessly and placing her on the edge of the workbench.

Bending forward, his mouth at her neck, he trailed downward. Using one hand, he lifted her thigh wide and set her foot on the edge of the bench, dropping to his knees in front of her.

When his lips touched hers, she almost screamed. As he savored her--slow, careful, terrible--her hands rushed to his head, fingers biting into his hair.

Trembling, her thighs gripped his head, attempting to both draw him in and push him away; he wouldn't stop. He didn't wish to.

Between licks, he murmured,"I will take you apart slowly till there left nothing but needs."

Her breath was ragged, he finally got up. He kissed her, allowing her to feel herself on his lips. Then, without saying anything, he bent her over the bench turning her.

From behind this time, his fingers found her again and drew in close, his voice a dirty whisper in her ear, eliciting gasps from her throat.

"Your body understands who it belongs to. It was only waiting for someone to take ownership."

She did not deny. Couldn't.

.

It was as though the last thread in her fabric had snapped as he finally entered her--slow, careful, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her body stretched around him, enclosing her legs closer and drawing him deeper.

No words. Simply breathe.

Flesh. Fire.

After Climax

Silence fell like mist after the climax.

Her breath--uneven, loath to go back to normal--was the only sound. Meenal lay naked on the workbench, her skin flushed, her limbs slack with surrender.

A step distant, Irfan's eyes followed every inch of her as though he were trying to remember the aftermath.

She noticed Irfan looking at her.

She didn't immediately cover herself.

"Enjoy this view, Irfan," she chuckled low and hoarse as she grabbed for her sari.

Bending slowly and purposefully, she purred, "You better remember every inch, Irfan," Your hand will not feel like mine the next time it is between someone's thighs."

Winking, she drew her blouse over reddened flesh.

"You will feel this difference every night."

Irfan's voice, low, amused, and pained, breaking the silence as Meenal bent to pick up her sari.

"I didn't expect your most secred parts to wear a bindi as well."

His gaze fell plainly between her legs and lingered just a second too long.

"The red suits you even there too."

He took her blouse and went behind her.

Lifting her hair, she remarked, "Tie that dori tight." "I don't want it to recall how readily it came undone for you."

Fingers brushing the same skin that had once welcomed his mouth, his hands shook as they worked the knot.

"That knot will always remember. So will I."

She whispered, "I'll slip back into my world like nothing happened..." changing the pleats.

"Every time my thighs press together, I will remember how you made them to shake."

Pain visible over his face as he breathed out slowly.

"Even in my dreams, I'll remember the sound you made when you gave in."

Still, he was silent.

He helped her with her bangles, arranging her pallu, touching her as if she was made of glass.

"Today I gave you something which my husband never touched," she said quietly, putting on her sandals.

Finally, he raised his gaze.

"Then I have touched something sacred. And I will die recalling its warmth."

Fully clothed but irrevocably undone, she stood there a minute longer. In the mirror's image, her sindoor still glowed brilliantly.

She did not kiss him farewell. She did not touch him.

But before she opened the door, she turned slightly and spoke one final time,

You weren't going to be my future. The firestarter is all. Sleep well knowing you will never touch what you woke up to again.

He didn't answer--he couldn't. His lips opened, but the words were stuck behind the heaviness in his throat.