Indian Bhabhi Sex Story Part 1: The Dupatta on His Balcony

Nobody plans for their life to turn into an indian bhabhi sex story. Mine did on a Tuesday afternoon at twelve forty, when my dupatta slipped off the terrace railing and floated straight onto the one balcony in this building it had no business landing on.

"Bhabhi, your dupatta seems to like my balcony more than you do." The voice came from across the narrow gap between our terraces, lazy and amused.

I looked up and my stomach did something stupid. Dev. Chetan's college friend. He had moved into 4B last week, the flat directly opposite ours, fresh out of a divorce and working from home for some Bangalore startup.

"It has better taste than me, clearly," I called back, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue. What kind of line was that to throw at a man you barely know.

He laughed though. A real laugh, head tipped back. He picked up my dupatta from his railing and held it up like a flag of surrender. "Come and rescue it before it files for a change of address."

I am Ritu, thirty two, married eight years to Chetan, who sells pharmaceuticals across Maharashtra and is home maybe ten days a month. I run my house, I watch my serials, I have lunch with the society aunties. I do not flirt with men on balconies.

That is what I told myself while I took the stairs down, crossed the corridor, and knocked on 4B with my heart hammering like I was nineteen again.

He opened the door in a faded t-shirt and track pants, my dupatta folded neatly in his hand. His flat smelled of fresh paint and coffee. Boxes were still stacked against one wall, half unpacked.

"Rescue mission successful," he said, handing it over. Our fingers touched. Neither of us pulled away fast enough for it to be innocent.

"Chetan mentioned you were shifting to Mumbai," I said, stepping inside because he had stepped aside, and it felt rude to stand in the doorway. "Divorce and all. Sorry. I mean, not sorry. You know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean, Ritu bhabhi." He said my name like he had been saying it for years. "Chai? I finally figured out where I packed the kettle."

I should have said no. I had dal on the stove, or I could have had dal on the stove. Instead I said yes, and I followed him into his kitchen, and I watched his back as he moved around boxes like a man completely at ease in his own skin.

"You look the same," he said suddenly, without turning around. "Exactly the same as that college fest. The yellow kurti. You danced like nobody was watching, but everybody was."

My face went hot. That was eleven years ago. Chetan had introduced us, and Dev had spent the whole evening trying to make me laugh while Chetan was busy organizing the event. He had made me laugh a lot.

"You remember that?" I said.

"I remember everything about that night," he said, and turned around with two cups of chai. "Especially the part where you told me I dance like a buffalo with a leg injury."

I burst out laughing, and just like that the strangeness of standing in a near stranger's kitchen evaporated. We sat on his half covered sofa with the chai, knees almost touching, and he pulled out his phone.

"Look," he said, scrolling. "Chetan sent me these last month. Old fest photos."

There we were. Young, stupid, glowing. Me in that yellow kurti, Dev beside me with his arm around Chetan's shoulder, all three of us laughing at something the camera never caught. Dev's thumb brushed over the photo, and then, deliberately, over the back of my hand where it rested on the sofa between us.

"You were trouble," he said softly. "You still have that look."

"What look."

"Like you are thinking something you should not be thinking."

"My wife left in March," he said, quieter now. "Eleven years of marriage, and she told me she felt like my roommate. I swore I would never be the reason someone else's marriage cracked. And here I am, sitting too close to my best friend's wife, thinking things I should not be thinking."

The honesty of it hit me harder than any line could have. My own wedding ring suddenly felt heavy on my finger. Chetan was a good man. He worked hard, he loved me in his tired, distracted way. But when was the last time he had looked at me like Dev was looking at me right now, like I was the only interesting thing in the room.

"Then why did you invite me in," I asked.

"Because I am selfish," he said simply. "And because you came."

I should have laughed it off. I should have stood up, thanked him for the chai, and gone back to my dal. Instead I looked at his mouth, and he looked at mine, and the air in that half unpacked flat got very thin.

"Dev," I said, and it came out as a warning and an invitation at the same time.

He set his chai down. He set mine down too. Then his hand was on my cheek, his thumb on my lower lip, and eleven years of almost something finally caught fire.

His mouth was on mine before I could finish the thought. Not gentle. Hungry. His tongue pushed past my lips and I opened for him like my body had been waiting for this exact mouth, and maybe it had. My hands fisted in his t-shirt. His hand slid down my back and gripped my hip hard enough to leave a mark.

"Ritu," he groaned against my mouth. "Tell me to stop."

"No," I whispered, and pulled him closer.

We kissed like that for a long time, messy and desperate, his stubble scraping my chin, my fingers in his hair. When he finally pulled back we were both breathing hard, and his eyes were dark and fixed on me.

"Your dupatta," he said, glancing at where it lay folded on the armrest. "Best thing that ever flew off a railing."

"Shut up," I said, and kissed him again, because his mouth was better occupied that way.

This time his hands went under my kurti. His palms were rough and warm on the bare skin of my waist, sliding up, and I arched into him. He found the clasp of my bra with the ease of a man who had done this before, and when it came undone I gasped into his mouth.

"Beautiful," he muttered, cupping my breasts through the thin cotton, thumbs circling my nipples until they went hard and aching. "Fuck, Ritu, you are beautiful."

I had not been touched like this in months. Chetan's tours, his exhaustion, the routine of it. My body woke up all at once, every nerve ending screaming. I pushed Dev back against the sofa and straddled his lap, grinding down on him, and felt him hard and thick through his track pants.

"Someone is happy to see me," I breathed, rocking against him.

"Someone has been thinking about you since the fest," he said, and his hands slid down to my hips, guiding my rhythm. "Eleven years, Ritu."

The friction was maddening. My salwar was bunched between us, his cock pressing up hard against my pussy through two layers of cloth, and I was already wet, embarrassingly wet. I could feel it.

"Dev," I panted. "I need. I need your hands on me. Properly."

He didn't need to be told twice. One hand slipped between us, under my salwar, inside my panties, and his fingers found me slick and swollen. I cried out when he slid one finger inside me, then two, curling them exactly where I needed.

"So wet," he whispered, watching my face. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," I hissed. "Yes, don't stop, please don't stop."

He worked me with his fingers while his thumb circled my clit, and I rode his hand shamelessly, my forehead pressed to his shoulder, whimpering. His other hand squeezed my breast, pinching my nipple just hard enough to make me jolt.

"Come for me," he said. "Right here. On my hand."

And I did. It hit me like a wave, my whole body clenching around his fingers, my cry muffled against his neck. He held me through it, fingers still moving, drawing it out until I was shaking and boneless against him.

For a moment there was only our breathing. Then my hand slid down his stomach, over the waistband of his track pants, and closed around his cock through the fabric. He was big, hard, straining.

"My turn," I said.

That was when my phone rang.

We froze. The ringtone cut through the room like a knife. Chetan's name flashed on the screen where my phone lay on the coffee table.

I stared at it. Dev's fingers were still inside me. My hand was still on his cock. Neither of us moved.

The ringing stopped. One missed call. We exhaled together, shaky.

"I should go," I whispered, but I didn't move.

"Yeah," he said, but his fingers curled inside me once more, making me gasp. "You should."

I pulled his hand free slowly, licking my own wetness off his fingers while he watched, his jaw tight. Then I fixed my bra with shaking hands, straightened my kurti, and stood up on unsteady legs.

At the door he caught my wrist. "Ritu. This can't happen again like this. Not rushed. Not with phones ringing."

"No," I agreed, my heart pounding. "Not like this."

"Tomorrow," he said. "Chetan is in Nagpur till Friday. Come at noon. The terrace door between our flats. It doesn't lock."

I stared at him. The terrace door. Of course. Our terraces were connected by a door nobody ever used.

My phone lit up again. Not a call this time. A message from Chetan, and my blood turned to ice when I read it.

Video call me. Now.

Part 2 is coming soon...