In the bath

Here's the English translation:

Prianka gently lifted me in her arms and carried me toward the bathroom—as if I were a precious package she wasn't yet ready to put down.

Inside the warm bathroom, where the sound of the exhaust fan hummed softly, Prianka Bhabhi gently sat me down on a fabric stool near the sink. I was still shirtless, with stubborn yellow haldi stains clinging to parts of my hair and back. I sat silently, watching her move calmly and deliberately around the bathroom—rolling up the sleeves of her kurti, gathering a soft towel, a bottle of oil, a wide-toothed comb, shampoo, and a metal bowl filled with warm water.

"Okay," she said in a sweet voice, standing behind me. Her voice had returned to the same soft, melodic tone she had used when rocking me earlier. "Now my little boy needs to have his hair washed."

I began to protest, half-rising. "Auntie, please, I can do it myself—"

Before I could finish, her strong hands gently but firmly pressed down on my shoulders, settling me onto the stool with surprising ease. "Hush," she whispered in my ear from behind. "Sit still. There will be no arguments. The man who couldn't escape my hug, who lay limp in my arms like a baby, isn't suddenly going to find muscles and independence."

I blushed fiercely. Her teasing tone felt like a needle poking me. I looked down at my feet, unable to meet her eyes.

She poured a little oil onto her palms and gently massaged it into my scalp. Her fingers were strong yet tender, working in a deep, deliberate rhythm. It was strangely soothing.

"You know, Salman," she began again, the playfulness in her voice unmistakable, "I keep thinking about how easy it was to lift you. Just one hug, and poof! You were in the air and nestled in my arms like a little girl's doll."

I sighed softly. "Auntie... please don't..."

"Why not?" she said, chuckling as she worked the oil into my hair with circular motions. "A 28-year-old young man... but only 5'3"... 60 kg... and so helpless against a bigger woman. It's not just a small difference."

I hid my face in my hands. "Aun-tieee..."

She leaned in close to my ear, her cheek touching mine. "Why are you so shy? It's not your fault, my little boy... you're just... adorably small."

She laughed, pouring warm water over my hair and gently beginning to lather it. Her voice dropped to a softer, more teasing whisper.

"But in return," she smirked, "I am a woman. And you are the man. A man... who gets lifted... gets bathed... gets carried... and helplessly hides his face in my breasts like a little boy..."

She leaned in again. "So tell me, my little boy, do you prefer being hugged by just me here in my apartment, or being lifted outside in front of fifty other women?"

I moaned aloud. "You're embarrassing me, Auntie..."

She gave my hair a final rinse and then wrapped it in a towel. Her hands came around my back and she gently lifted me off the stool. But instead of letting me walk, she quickly bent and scooped me up into her arms again—with no effort at all.

"There. All clean. All soft. All fresh. And all mine," she smiled as she carried me out of the bathroom like a mother holding a sleeping child.

I should have protested. But I was so tired... and perhaps, somewhere deep down, I didn't really want to resist anymore. Her embrace was warm and secure. I felt strangely at peace.

"I could carry you like this forever," she whispered into my ear as we entered the bedroom. "Even if the whole building laughs at me. I don't care. You are mine."

She sat down on her bed, still holding me on her lap and gently rocking. "But just for fun," she added with a wink, "maybe tomorrow I'll get you a nice pink salwar kameez and braid your hair—and carry you again. Let's see how that version of Salman feels."