Desi Sex Stories: The Broadband Guy's Late Night Service Call

"Rohit, I am telling you the client will not wait beyond Friday," I said, and then my screen froze. My own face stared back at me from the Zoom tile, mouth open mid word, and below it the red line of death. Connection lost. The router on the TV console blinked orange, then red, then nothing at all. I picked up my phone and called the broadband service center, and I was not polite about it.

"Madam, complaint noted. Technician will reach within one hour," the boy on the line said, in that flat voice they all use. "One hour? My whole work is stuck," I snapped, and slammed the phone down on the coffee table. My husband is in Dubai and has been for six months, and I run my entire design studio from this flat in Andheri. No internet means no money. I walked to the bathroom and stood under the shower to cool my head, because shouting at a call center boy does nothing.

Twenty five minutes later the doorbell rang. I had forgotten about the nighty. It was a short satin one, deep maroon, the one I wear when the flat is mine alone and nobody is going to knock. But somebody had knocked, and I opened the door with my hair still wet and a towel in my hand.

He was young, maybe twenty seven, with a tool bag slung over one shoulder and sweat darkening the collar of his grey company T-shirt. "Broadband service, madam. Router complaint?" he said, and his eyes did a quick trip down and up again, professional but not dead. "Come in. It is that box near the TV," I said, and stepped back to let him pass. The flat suddenly felt smaller.

His name was Rohan, I learned, when he pulled out his phone to check the complaint number. He crouched in front of the TV console and opened the router panel with a small screwdriver, and I stood behind him with my arms crossed, watching the muscles in his forearms move. He was not one of those gym bodies. He was the other kind, the kind that carries tool bags up nine floors when the lift is slow, all lean strength.

"Madam, the fiber line from the junction box looks loose. The box is above the TV, I will need a chair," he said. I dragged the dining chair over, and he climbed up and started working above my head. His T-shirt rode up a little at the back. I will be honest, I looked. It had been six months since my husband left for Dubai, and six months of video calls do not fix what a woman's body asks for at night.

"Chai piyoge?" I asked, because my mother raised me right and also because I wanted him to stay a little longer. "Haan madam, adrak wali," he grinned, not looking down. I went to the kitchen and made two cups, and when I came back he was down from the chair, frowning at his tester. "Line is weak, madam. I will have to re splice the joint. Ten minutes."

We sat on the sofa with the chai, because the router was restarting and there was nothing to do but wait. He sat at one end, I sat too close at the other, my nighty riding up my thigh every time I shifted. I noticed him noticing, and I did not fix it. Instead I asked him about his work, how many complaints a day, whether people shout at him. "Sabse zyada toh aunties chillati hain," he laughed, and something in that laugh made my stomach tighten.

His cup was empty and he set it down, and when I leaned forward to take it, my knee pressed against his thigh and stayed there. The air in the room changed. He looked at my knee, then at me, and he did not move away. "Madam," he said quietly, "aapko pata hai na aap kya kar rahi hain?" Nobody had spoken to me like that in months, direct and without fear, and I felt heat rush up my neck.

"Rohan," I said, and my voice came out lower than I meant, "tumhe pata hai na tum kya dekh rahe ho?" He put his hand on my knee. Not a brush, not an accident. His whole palm, warm and rough from work, flat on my bare skin above the hem of my nighty. My breath caught. This was the moment where I could have stood up and ended it, and I did not stand up.

He leaned in and kissed me, and it was not a gentle kiss. It was the kiss of a man who had been watching me since the door opened and had decided. His hand slid higher up my thigh, pushing the satin aside, and his fingers found the edge of my panty. I gasped into his mouth, and he used that to deepen the kiss, his tongue sure and hungry.

I stood up and pulled him up with me, my hands already under his T-shirt, feeling the hard lines of his stomach. He lifted the shirt over his head in one motion and threw it on the sofa, and then his hands were on the thin straps of my nighty, sliding them down my shoulders. The satin pooled at my feet. I stood in front of him in only my panty, and his eyes went dark.

"Bahut din se kisi ne tumhe aise dekha nahi, hai na?" he murmured, cupping my breasts through nothing at all now, his thumbs circling my nipples until they stood hard. I moaned and arched into his hands, and he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking slow and deep while his hand squeezed the other. My fingers dug into his hair.

He pushed me back against the TV console, the router blinking green behind us now, forgotten, and hooked his fingers into my panty and dragged it down my legs. I stepped out of it, completely naked in my own living room in front of a man I had met forty minutes ago, and I had never felt more alive. He knelt in front of me, and I knew what was coming, and I spread my legs wider.

His mouth on my chut was skilled, no hesitation, his tongue finding exactly the spot and staying there, circling, pressing. I grabbed the edge of the console for support, my knees shaking. "Rohan, bas, andar daalo," I begged, because my body was screaming for the real thing. He stood up, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his jeans and underwear down in one go.

His lund was thick and hard, standing up against his stomach, and I dropped to my knees without being asked and took him into my mouth. He groaned, a deep sound from his chest, his hand fisting in my wet hair. I sucked him slow and deep, my tongue working the underside, taking him as far as I could, and his hips started moving on their own.

"Madam, bas, warna abhi nikal jayega," he gasped, pulling me up. He turned me around and bent me over the sofa arm, and I felt the head of his lund press against my wet chut. He pushed in slow, filling me inch by inch, and I cried out, loud, not caring who heard through these thin Andheri walls. He was big, bigger than what my body remembered, and the stretch burned sweet.

He started moving, slow deep strokes at first, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. Then faster, harder, the sofa scraping the floor with every thrust. "Tumhari chut kitni tight hai," he groaned behind me, and the dirty words in his rough voice pushed me higher. I pushed back against him, meeting every stroke, my breasts swinging with the rhythm.

He pulled out suddenly and flipped me onto my back on the sofa, spreading my legs wide and driving back into me in one hard push that made me scream. This position was deeper, his lund hitting places inside me that made my eyes roll back. He fucked me hard and fast, his sweat dripping onto my chest, our skin slapping loud in the quiet flat.

"Main jhadne wali hoon," I cried, feeling the wave building, my inner muscles starting to clench around him. "Ruko mat, aane do," he panted, and he rubbed my clit with his thumb while pounding into me. The orgasm hit me like a current, my whole body convulsing, my chut clenching hard around his lund, and I screamed his name into the empty flat.

Feeling me come pushed him over. He pulled out at the last second and his hot cum shot across my stomach and breasts in thick spurts, and he groaned long and low, his body shuddering. We lay there tangled on the sofa, both breathing hard, his cum cooling on my skin. The router blinked steady green behind us. The internet was back. I laughed, a real laugh, for the first time in weeks.

We cleaned up in the bathroom, and I made him another chai, because some habits do not die. He drank it standing in my kitchen in his T-shirt, and then he looked at the bedroom door, and then at me. I did not say a word. I just took his empty cup, set it down, and walked to the bedroom. I heard his tool bag drop on the floor behind me.

In the bedroom he was slower this time, like a man who knows he has all night. He laid me on the bed and kissed his way down my body, spending a long time on my breasts, sucking each nipple until I was writhing. Then lower, his mouth back on my chut, and this time he took his time, licking and sucking until I came again, quieter this time, my hands twisted in the bedsheet.

Then he climbed over me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he slid his lund deep inside me in one smooth motion. Missionary, face to face, his eyes locked on mine. This round was different, slower, deeper, every stroke deliberate. He kissed me through it, long deep kisses, his hands under my hips lifting me to meet him.

"Tum upar aao," he whispered, and I rolled him onto his back and straddled him, taking his lund inside me and riding him slow. I set the rhythm, grinding down hard, my hands on his chest, my hair falling around us. He watched me, his hands on my hips guiding me, and when I leaned forward my breasts pressed into his face and he sucked my nipples while I rode him.

I could feel his lund swelling inside me, and I rode him faster, harder, chasing it. "Main phir se jhad rahi hoon," I gasped, and the second orgasm rolled through me, longer this time, my whole body trembling on top of him. He held my hips and thrust up into me hard three, four times, and then he groaned and I felt his hot cum fill me deep inside, pulse after pulse.

We lay still, me collapsed on his chest, his arms around me, both of us sticky and spent. After a while he got up, dressed, picked up his tool bag. At the door he turned. "Complaint close kar doon, madam? Line bilkul fix hai." I smiled, feeling the pleasant ache between my legs. "Haan, kar do. Aur agli baar line kharab ho, toh tum hi aana."

He grinned that grin, and the door clicked shut. I walked back to my laptop, still in the maroon nighty, and the Zoom window was still open, my client waiting. I rejoined the call, apologized for the network issue, and presented the designs like nothing had happened. But under the desk, my legs were still trembling, and I was smiling like a woman with a secret.