Archana's Internship – Boss Affair
The Desperate Chance
In a small Andhra town, Archana hunched over her old laptop, the dull fan rattling above her. Another rejection flashed across the screen, the red subject line cutting through her chest. At 20, with two stubborn backlogs dragging her B.Tech down, she felt the ground under her life giving way. If I fail, Appa has to face the neem-tree men again. Amma will have to smile and pretend nothing is wrong. I can’t go back empty.
Her family had borrowed to keep her in college. Her father still boasted that his girl would find a city job; her mother still lit lamps for her every morning. Shame sat on Archana’s ribs like a stone. She sent her resume everywhere, to companies she barely recognized. One mail came back: Rao Tech Solutions — Offer: Internship. She read it three times, hands shaking. This is it. Don’t waste it. Even if you have to bleed for it, don’t waste it.
Across the city, in a cluttered cabin smelling faintly of polish and printer ink, 45-year-old Raghav Rao scrolled through applications. His belly pressed the desk edge; his comb-over no longer hid the shine of his scalp. The framed awards behind him felt like props. So did the wedding photo on the bookshelf. Everyone thinks I have everything. I go to bed alone in that big house.
Then her resume: poor grades, two backlogs. The attached photo made him pause — wide brown eyes, a shy curve of mouth, hair tied too tight like she was trying to be smaller than she was. So young. So earnest. She’ll be grateful. He clicked Approve.
Her first day, the glass tower hit her with cold AC and a smell of fresh paint. She smoothed her plain salwar, trying to hide the village in her. Raghav met her at the door, warm palm swallowing her small hand, the shake lingering a second longer than needed. “Welcome, Archana. You’ll do great here.” Relief filled her chest like steam. Maybe… maybe this is the turn. Don’t mess it up.
Building Interest
Days blurred into logins, spreadsheets, small tasks. Archana stayed late, afraid to give anyone a reason to doubt her. Each nod from Raghav she stored like a coin. Each smile warmed her more than she wanted to admit.
He began calling her into his cabin. He would stand close while explaining fixes, his belly brushing her sleeve when he leaned to point at a chart. The first time she froze, heat blooming under the fabric. Accident… maybe. Don’t make it awkward.
His eyes rested on her face a heartbeat too long. His praise was sweet, heavy. “You learn fast. Stick with me. Those backlogs won’t stand a chance.” Over coffee, he asked about her village, the borrowed money, her mother’s lamps. His hand would rest on her shoulder when she spoke, not moving, just claiming. She told herself it meant he believed in her. No professor ever listened like this. Maybe this is what a mentor is.
At night he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He pictured her small hands cupping the paper cup, the anxious smile. Soft. Untouched. She looks at me like I can fix her world. A pulse woke in his body he had taught himself to forget.
On a Friday with rain crowding the windows, he stopped at her desk, voice lowered. “Client presentation needs polish. I want you on it tonight.” The word want curled inside her. If he trusts me with this, maybe I belong here. Just work. Focus.
Overtime Isolation
By eight, the floor was empty. Keyboards were quiet, chairs pulled in, monitors black. The AC hummed; rain tapped the glass. Archana sat with her laptop balanced on her thighs, cursor blinking on a half-finished chart. She checked a number twice because her hands were shaking.
Raghav came back with two mugs. “Can’t have my best intern fading.” His fingers grazed hers when she took the cup — warm, deliberate, not an accident. The touch ran up her wrist like current. It’s just coffee. Breathe.
He stood behind her and set his hands on her shoulders, thumbs kneading the tight knots near her neck. She stiffened, then melted despite herself. His belly pressed soft against her back when he leaned to see the screen. “Here — scroll. Let’s rebuild that chart.” He slipped his hand over her hand on the mouse and didn’t let go even after the cursor moved. He guided, then stayed. His breath warmed the edge of her ear.
He shouldn’t. But if I pull away, I make it a scene. Finish the slide. Think of Appa’s loans. Just finish.
He said, softly, “You have a spark, Archana. Not just in your work.” The sentence hung in the room like a promise that could cost her everything.
When he suggested, almost casually, “Let’s move to my cabin — bigger screen, fewer distractions,” she rose with the laptop hugged to her chest. The door shut with a soft click. The blinds slid down. The rain grew louder. Inside, the air held still, thick with something they both pretended not to name.
Crossing Boundaries
The leather couch let out a tired sigh as she sat. She kept the laptop on her lap like a shield. He settled close, thigh to thigh, his suit pant rough against her salwar. “Show me the slide again,” he said, and reached around her as if for the trackpad.
His forearm boxed her in. His hand settled over her hand, guiding the cursor, then slipping lower, the edge of his pinky brushing the gathered fabric near her pelvis. Once. Twice. The third time, the knuckle pressed and stayed at the crease where her thigh met heat. She held her breath. The laptop hid them, but she felt exposed all the same.
If I move, I admit it’s happening. If I don’t, I’m letting it happen. Appa’s loans. Amma’s lamps. I can’t fail. I can’t.
He stared at the screen and scrolled, the back of his hand grazing the swell of her inner thigh again, slower now. The laptop tilted as she shifted, and he used the moment to take it gently from her and set it on the cushion. His other hand slid to her knee, thumb stroking a small circle, then another higher up — asking with the touch what he did not ask with words.
He tilted her chin until her eyes met his. “Do you know what you do to me?” he whispered, and kissed her, soft, tasting, like he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard. The second kiss held. She trembled and opened, breath snaring in her throat.
This is wrong. I am the girl who promised to be good. But I am out of doors, out of luck, out of time. If this keeps me in the city… if this saves my parents…
She did not stand. She did not push him away.
The Forbidden Surrender
He eased her down slowly, as if lowering something precious. The couch creaked. His heavy body hovered over her; his belly pressed warmly into her stomach, unavoidable. He kissed the line of her throat and the corner of her jaw, breaths coming rough. She clutched his shirt and felt the solid weight of him. Mmm…
His hands slid under her kurta and found her bra. He cupped her, thumbs teasing until her nipples pushed hard through the lace. She gasped and turned her face, eyes wet. He caught her wrist gently and pinned it beside her head, not harsh, but firm. I shouldn’t let him. But my body is burning. I don’t know this girl who moans like me.
(Raghav) So full in my hands. Young, high, perfect. I thought this part of my life had died. Look at her — under me — mine for the first time.
The clasp gave with a small snap. Her breasts spilled into his palms. He lowered his mouth, lips closing around a dark nipple, tongue circling, gentle then greedy. She made a broken sound that tightened every muscle in his body. He kissed lower, along her belly, worshipping each inch like it had been left on his doorstep by a god who felt sorry for old, lonely men.
He tugged her salwar and paused. Her panties were damp, the patch dark and shameless. He stared and swallowed. (Raghav) Wet for me. I could live on this sight. He kissed the damp cotton, inhaled, then pulled it aside. The first slow stroke of his tongue along her folds made her hips jerk. Ah— She grabbed the cushion, knuckles white, eyes shining with shock and heat. No one has ever touched me here. I’m falling. I can’t stop.
He took his time — long, careful laps, then small flicks, then a steady seal of mouth and tongue until her hips moved to meet him. The sounds in the room shifted: rain on glass, AC hum, soft wet lick… mmm…, her breath breaking, his low growl when she trembled. When his fingers slid in to join his tongue, her knees opened more on their own. Oh… oh…
He rose and freed himself, thick and heavy, veins standing, the blunt head slick. He pressed against her entrance and waited, eyes searching hers. She was crying quietly now, not from fear alone but from the weight of the choice already made. She nodded once. He pushed an inch, then stilled. Her mouth opened on a sound between pain and relief. He pressed another slow inch, then paused again, stroking her hair. “Breathe,” he whispered. (Raghav) So tight. So young. If I die right now, I die full.
When he was fully inside, they both shuddered. He stayed there, barely moving, letting her body learn him. Then the rhythm began — measured, deep, patient. The couch creaked time. Their breaths took the beat. Wet sounds grew. Slap… slick… ah… He bent to her ear: “I’ll take care of you.” Her nails bit his back and she arched to meet him. Mmm… yes…
Her first release came like a tremor turning into a wave, thighs tightening, breath breaking into small cries. He followed with a rough, helpless groan, spilling with his face pressed into her neck. For a long minute neither spoke. He stroked her hair. “At work, nothing changes — except everything will be better for you.”
She dressed with shaking fingers and turned her face, eyes hot. I did this for them. Say it until it feels true. I did this for them.
Lingering Guilt and Thrill
Morning made everything too bright. Chatter felt sharp. Archana kept her eyes low, afraid her skin itself told the story. Her lips tingled when she drank water. Her thighs remembered his weight. Shame and a small, traitorous heat coiled together in her belly.
Stand-up began. Raghav’s voice was clear, easy. “Archana’s insights turned the tide last night. Great work.” A light ripple of claps. She felt the eyes. Are they clapping for the slides or for what I did on that couch?
In the washroom she touched her mouth in the mirror and saw a girl who looked older than yesterday. Tears stung but didn’t fall. You chose. For Appa. For Amma. Keep walking.
Her phone buzzed: “Last night inspired me. More collaboration soon?” Her chest tightened; her pulse answered before her head did. Small perks followed — better tasks, visible praise, a meeting invite she had no business being in. Each one soothed the fear, and each one tied another soft thread around her wrists. Is this a ladder or a leash?
The Continuing Secret
The weekend recall came as a neat email. Everyone knew what it really meant. She went anyway. The building was hollow and blue, rain loud on the skin of the city. He was at the door before the lift opened, need plain in his eyes. Words were clumsy and short. The blinds dropped; the world clicked off.
They didn’t rush. They drifted and collided. On the couch he took her in his mouth until her legs shook; on the desk she braced her palms on cool laminate while he filled her from behind, his belly slapping, his breath hot on her neck, her sounds caught between shame and wanting. Ah— ah— On the floor she pulled him down and wrapped around him, taking his weight like a promise she would not name. I should stop. I should run. But when he touches me, my body forgets the door.
Appraisal season blurred into nights that ended long after the guards changed shifts. Sometimes he was slow, almost worshipping, as if the room itself were holy because she was in it. Sometimes he was frantic and needy, a man who had been thirsty for years and found a river and was afraid it would dry. (Raghav) I thought I was dead inside. She makes me greedy and gentle at once. (Archana) He needs me. And I need… this. What is wrong with me?
Whatever they fed together wasn’t simple lust and didn’t have the clean edges of love. It was a tether in the dark. It held.
Shadows of Consequence
The end came the way seasons change — quiet and certain. Raghav drafted her recommendation with careful, glowing words. “Diligent. Innovative. Dependable.” The letter weighed almost nothing and everything at once.
On their last evening the rain softened to a mist. They didn’t talk much. He kissed her like memorizing. His hands mapped her slowly, pausing as if to press each place into himself. When he slid into her, it was gentle, almost sad, their rhythm less hunger and more farewell. Her climax broke with tears; she hid her face in his neck and let them come. This will not leave me. Not in this room, not ever.
Morning brought clean clothes and clean faces. They did not touch. They did not risk a glance that would give everything away. In the elevator she held the letter to her chest and watched a girl who looked like a woman look back from the steel. I have a future. I paid for it in a currency no one will ever see.
He returned to his quiet house and his careful life. Another intern came. She was eager and bright. He was kind and distant. (Raghav) The office is bigger without her. The silence is louder. I will carry the shape of her for a long time.
