Indian Bhabhi Sex Story: The Dupatta on His Balcony, Part 2

The phone vibrated in my palm like a trapped insect. Dev's fingers were still hooked in the waistband of my panties, my back still pressed against his living room wall, and on my screen Chetan's message glowed in blue: Video call me. Now. Every indian bhabhi sex story I had ever laughed at over kitty party gossip had a moment exactly like this, and in every one of them the woman did something stupid. I was not going to be that woman.

I slid Dev's hand gently off me and pressed one finger to my lips. His eyes were dark and wild, his mouth still wet from mine, and for one mad second I almost laughed, because ten minutes ago I had been a decent married woman hanging laundry and now I was standing in another man's flat with my bra undone and my body humming like a struck wire. "Ten minutes," I whispered. "Do not move. Do not text me. Just wait."

I yanked my kurti straight, hooked my bra with shaking fingers behind my back, and grabbed my dupatta from where it had fallen across his sofa. My reflection in his hallway mirror stopped me cold for half a second. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair coming loose from its clip. I looked like a woman who had just been kissed senseless, which was accurate, and I pinched my own wrist hard. Focus, Ritu. Be boring. Be invisible.

I slipped out of 4B and crossed the six feet of corridor to my own flat like a thief, the dupatta clutched to my chest. Inside, I bolted the door and ran to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, dragged a comb through my hair, and scrubbed at my mouth until the redness faded to something that could pass for afternoon heat. My kurti had a crease across the front where his hands had gripped it. I smoothed it flat and hated how my fingers trembled.

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, arranged the recovered dupatta casually across my lap like a trophy of domestic virtue, and hit the video call button. Chetan's face filled the screen, tired and stubbled, a hotel room in Nagpur behind him with the curtains half drawn. He looked at me for a long moment before he spoke. "You took four minutes to pick up," he said.

"I was on the balcony hanging clothes," I said, and held up the dupatta for the camera like a lawyer presenting evidence. "Look. The wind threw this onto the neighbour's balcony this morning and I had to go begging for it like a fool. The whole society probably watched." I laughed, and the laugh came out easy and natural, and something in my chest unclenched when he smiled back.

"Which neighbour?" he asked, and my blood turned to ice water for exactly one heartbeat. "Four B," I said quickly. "The new fellow. Divorced chap, works from home. He was decent about it, gave me chai." Chetan grunted. "Hmm. Lock our door properly when you go out. Divorced men get ideas." I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. "Yes, baba, I am a child of five," I said, and he chuckled, and just like that the danger passed over my head like a cloud.

We talked for ten minutes about nothing. His client, the heat in Nagpur, whether the watchman had fixed the society gate. Then, casual as anything, he said, "Listen, the client moved tomorrow's meeting to this evening. If it goes well I might wrap the whole tour early." My thumb froze on the edge of the dupatta. "Early like when?" I asked. He shrugged. "Day after, maybe. Don't wait up for me either way." We said our goodnights and the screen went dark.

I sat there for a long time with the dead phone in my hand and my legs shaking under me. Fear and something else were tangled together low in my stomach, and the something else was worse, because it was hunger. An hour ago Dev's fingers had been inside me and I had come apart standing up in his living room, and now my husband was talking about train schedules while my skin still remembered another man's mouth. I pressed my palm flat against my own belly and felt the heat through the cotton.

Dev's message came at four. "Still alive?" I stared at it, then typed back with steady thumbs: "Barely. He suspects nothing. He might come home early." Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: "Then we do not waste the days we have." I read it three times and my whole body answered before my mind could object.

That night I cooked dal and rice for one and ate it standing at the kitchen counter, because sitting at the dining table alone felt like a reproach. I had not washed properly after the afternoon. A ghost of his cologne clung to the side of my neck where his mouth had been, and every time I caught it while stirring the dal, my knees went soft. Chetan had not touched me like that in months. Chetan had not looked at me like that in years.

In bed I lay in the dark with the fan turning overhead and Chetan's pillow cold beside me. I told myself to sleep. Instead my hand slid down under the blanket, and I thought of Dev's eyes when he had looked up at me from his knees, and I touched myself the way he had touched me, slow circles and then harder, and when I came I bit the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. It was the first time in eight years of marriage that I had finished thinking of a face that was not my husband's. The guilt arrived exactly one second later, and I looked it straight in the face and told it to sit down.

I am thirty two, I thought, staring at the ceiling fan. Not a widow. Not a child. A woman with a body that still wants things, and wants them loudly. The guilt got up and left the room. Sleep came in thin fragments after that, and in every fragment Dev was waiting on the other side of an unlocked door.

His message arrived at eleven forty the next morning, while I was folding Chetan's shirts that did not need folding. "Terrace door is open. Noon. Your call." I read it standing in the bedroom with a warm shirt in my hands, and I made my decision the way you step off a pavement, without looking back. I chose the blue salwar, the one Chetan once said made me look like an aunty. I lined my eyes. I left my hair open.

At five minutes to twelve I took the stairs up to the terrace with a basket of clothespins as my alibi, in case anyone asked. The society lay drowsy in the afternoon sun. The watchman was dozing in his plastic chair by the gate. Pigeons strutted along the parapet, cooing at nothing. Two rows of laundry snapped in the breeze, strangers' bedsheets and vests, and my heart was beating so hard I was sure the pigeons could hear it.

Our building has two terrace sections, ours and 4B's side, divided by a low wall with a connecting door that the society installed years ago and everyone forgot to lock. It stood ajar, just as he had promised, the metal warm under my palm. I pushed it open and stepped through, and there he was.

Dev stood by the parapet in jeans and no shirt, the sun pouring over his shoulders, a cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. He turned when the door creaked, and the look on his face did something to my knees that no amount of resolve could fix. "You came," he said quietly, as if he had not been sure until that second. "Through the door and everything. Very filmy."

"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. "Someone will see us." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin, and put out the cigarette against the parapet without looking away from me. "Let them," he murmured. "No. Do not say that," I whispered, but I did not move back. His hand found my waist, fingers pressing through the thin cotton of my kurti, and the whole terrace tilted.

He kissed me there in the open sun with the pigeons watching, and it was nothing like yesterday's frantic collision. This was deliberate. His mouth moved over mine slowly, tasting, claiming, and his other hand slid up my back and pulled me hard against him so I could feel exactly how glad he was to see me. A clothesline creaked beside us. Somewhere below, a pressure cooker whistled, ordinary life going on while mine quietly caught fire.

His hand slipped under my kurti then, right there on the open terrace, palm flat against the bare skin of my waist, thumb stroking upward toward the edge of my bra. "Dev," I breathed against his mouth, half protest and half plea. "Inside," he said, and it was not a question. He took my wrist and pulled me through his terrace door and down the short stairwell into 4B, and locked the front door behind us with a click that sounded like a verdict.

The living room was dim with the curtains drawn, the sofa still dented where my dupatta had lain yesterday. He turned to me and we stood there for a moment just looking at each other, and the air between us felt thick enough to bite. Then his hands were at the hem of my kurti, lifting, and I raised my arms like a girl, and the blue kurti sailed onto the sofa. My salwar followed. I stood before him in my bra and panties, breathing hard, and let him look.

"Ritu," he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like something sacred and filthy at the same time. He unhooked my bra with one practised flick and it dropped, and his hands closed over my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they stood hard and aching. He bent his head and took one into his mouth, hot and wet, sucking deep, and I cried out and buried my fingers in his hair. Yesterday he had been a starving man. Today he was a man taking his time with a feast.

I pushed at his jeans, impatient, and he laughed against my skin and let me. The button, the zip, and then he was in my hand, hard and heavy and hot, and I remembered the shape of him from yesterday through his trousers and marvelled that anything so bold could also feel so right in my palm. I stroked him slowly, watching his face change, watching his control fray at the edges, and the power of it went straight through me like wine.

"My turn," he growled, and before I could answer he had me backed against the wall beside the bookshelf, my panties stripped down my legs in one smooth pull. He went to his knees in front of me, and I gasped, because there was something unspeakably erotic about this tall man kneeling on his own living room floor with my thighs in his hands. He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me wide, and then his mouth was on me.

No man had ever done that to me with such intent. Chetan, in the early years, had tried twice, clumsily, and given up. Dev licked me like he was reading a language he already knew, long slow strokes and then a sudden focused pressure exactly where I needed it, and his fingers slid inside me at the same time, curling, finding the spot that made my whole body jerk. I clutched at the bookshelf, books rattling, and came with a cry I barely managed to swallow, my leg shaking on his shoulder.

He stood, wiping his mouth, eyes blazing, and lifted me clean off the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist by instinct, and he carried me down the short corridor to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us. His bed was unmade, a divorced man's bed, grey sheets tangled, and he laid me down in the middle of it like an offering. For a second we just breathed, skin to skin, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I had never felt so completely, recklessly alive.

He reached into the drawer of the bedside table, and I loved him a little for being prepared, for having thought about this, about me, enough to go and buy them. He rolled it on with steady hands, and then he was between my thighs, and the first slow push of him inside me stole every thought I had ever owned. I was wet and open and ready, and still the stretch of him made me gasp and arch, my nails digging into his back.

"Look at me," he whispered, and I opened my eyes. He moved inside me slowly at first, deep rolling thrusts, watching my face the whole time, and the intimacy of being watched like that, truly seen, undid me faster than the friction. "You are so beautiful like this," he said, and I believed him, because no one had ever looked at me the way he was looking at me then. Then he picked up the pace, and talk became impossible.

His rhythm turned harder, rougher, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady beat, and I met him thrust for thrust, wrapping my legs high around his back, pulling him deeper. "Harder," I heard myself say, shocked at my own voice, and he obeyed with a groan, driving into me until the bed shook and my cries came unstoppable. The coil wound tighter and tighter, and when it snapped I screamed his name into his shoulder, my whole body convulsing around him.

He did not stop. He flipped me with surprising gentleness, onto my hands and knees, and took me from behind, one hand tangled in my loose hair, the other reaching around to rub me in tight fast circles. The angle was devastating, each thrust hitting exactly the spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. "Dev, Dev, I cannot," I panted, and he leaned over my back, his mouth at my ear. "Yes you can," he breathed. "Give me one more."

And I did. It rolled through me like a wave breaking, longer and deeper than the first, and I sobbed his name into the pillow while he held my hips and drove into me through it, and then with a hoarse cry he buried himself deep and spent himself, shuddering, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. We collapsed sideways in a tangle of limbs, both of us breathing like we had run a race, sweat cooling on our skin in the fan's breeze.

For a long while neither of us spoke. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. My head rested on his chest, listening to his heart slow down. "Eleven years," he said suddenly, quiet. "I have known you eleven years, Ritu. Since that fest. And I never once let myself think this thought." I propped myself up on one elbow. "What thought?" He smiled, tired and honest. "That the girl in the yellow dupatta would end up in my bed. That I would get this lucky and this ruined at the same time."

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. Work, probably, the Bangalore startup that paid him to sit in this flat all day. He glanced at it, then turned it face down without answering. "Let them wait," he said. "They have waited eleven years. They can wait one afternoon." I laughed, and it felt like the first real laugh in days, and we lay there wrapped in the grey sheets while the afternoon sun slanted through the curtain gap.

Eventually we got up, because lying there forever was not an option, however much I wanted it. He made chai in his kitchen wearing only his jeans, and I sat on his counter in his shirt, which hung to my knees and smelled of him, and we drank it scalding hot and talked about nothing. His divorce. My wedding. The society gossip about the Sharmas on the second floor. It was so domestic, so easy, that it hurt somewhere behind my ribs, because this was the part no one warned you about. Not the sin. The tenderness.

"Stay a little longer," he said, refilling my cup. "The terrace door will still be there tomorrow." I shook my head, smiling. "I have to go before someone notices the bhabhi from 4A has developed a sudden love for terraces." He caught my wrist as I slid off the counter. "Ritu." His voice had changed, gone serious. "Whatever happens with your husband coming back. This was real. Do not let me become a story you pretend never happened."

"It was real," I said, and kissed him, soft and slow, a different kiss from all the others. A promise and a goodbye folded into one. I dressed in the bedroom with my back to him, because watching me dress seemed to pain him, and I understood. Getting dressed meant returning to the world where this could not exist.

My phone rang as I was stepping into my salwar. Chetan's name lit up the screen, and the blood drained from my face so fast I had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Dev froze in the doorway, the chai cup halfway to his mouth. I stared at the ringing phone like it was a snake. Then I answered, because not answering was worse.

"Hello?" My voice came out bright and wifely, and I hated how good I had become at this. "Ritu, good news and bad news," Chetan said, and there was road noise behind him, wind and horns. "Good news, the deal closed this morning. Client signed. Bad news." A pause. My heart stopped. "Bad news?" I whispered.

"I am at Nagpur station," he said. "There is a train at six. If it is on time, I will be home tonight. Eleven, eleven thirty." The room tilted. Dev was watching my face, and I saw him read the disaster in it before I said a word. "Tonight," I repeated, stupidly. "Yes, tonight," Chetan said, pleased with himself. "Surprise. Are you happy?" "Very happy," I said, and my voice did not crack, and I was proud and horrified in equal measure. "I will make your favourite. Come home safe."

The call ended. Silence filled the bedroom like water filling a room. Dev set his chai cup down very carefully on the dresser. "He is coming home tonight," he said. It was not a question. I nodded, my hands clenched in the fabric of the blue salwar. Eleven o'clock. My husband, walking through our front door in six hours, while the smell of another man was still on my skin and my body still ached in places he would never think to ask about.

Dev crossed the room and took my face in his hands. "Then we have six hours," he said quietly. "Six hours before the world comes back. I am not wasting a minute of them." Outside, the afternoon sun slid lower, and somewhere below us a train whistle blew, thin and far away, like a warning. Agla part jald aa raha hai.