“Still haven’t found decent turmeric?” Vidya muttered under her breath, scanning the spice vendor’s overflowing cart. Her knuckles whitened around her woven jute bag.
The crowded Chandni Chowk market pressed in on her, sweat trickling down her temple despite the morning chill. She adjusted her chiffon dupatta, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her neck. Across the narrow aisle, Khalid leaned against his family’s brassware stall, polishing an engraved vase with deliberate slowness. His eyes locked onto hers for a heartbeat too long, a silent acknowledgment passing between them before he glanced away.
Vidya’s pulse quickened as she pretended to examine saffron threads. That brief contact reignited memories of their last encounter in his uncle’s storage room three days prior – his calloused hands gripping her hips, her silk sari shoved up around her waist while he drove into her from behind. She’d bitten her own wrist raw silencing moans as her climax ripped through her. Now, watching him casually wipe fingerprints off bronze, she felt slickness pooling between her thighs.
Without pretense, Khalid abandoned his polishing cloth and strode toward her. The chattering shoppers blurred around them as he stopped mere inches away, his weathered work shirt brushing her forearm. “Your husband’s car is at the mechanic,” he stated flatly, his voice low beneath the market din. “The lane behind the spice merchant has no cameras.” Vidya swallowed hard, her throat dry. The turmeric vendor shouted prices, oblivious as she turned to follow Khalid into the shadowed alley.
Crumbling brick walls pressed close, dampness clinging to the air. Before Vidya could speak, Khalid spun her roughly, pinning her against cold stone. His hand slid beneath her sari blouse, fingers twisting her nipple until she gasped. “Quiet,” he growled, his other hand already hiking her silk skirt up her thighs. She felt his erection straining against his trousers, grinding into her hip. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed her, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood coppery heat bloomed on her tongue.
He undid his fly with impatient tugs. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. Vidya dropped to her knees without hesitation, the rough pavement scraping her skin. She took him deep, her throat stretching around him as he gripped her hair. “Suck it like you mean it, panditani,” he commanded, thrusting deeper. She gagged, tears pricking her eyes, but hollowed her cheeks, swirling her tongue around his shaft. His groan echoed off the alley walls as her breasts spilled free from her blouse, heavy and pale against his dusty jeans. He grabbed them roughly, squeezing hard enough to bruise as she worked him faster.
Bhabhi ji ghar par hai – Part 1
Suddenly, Khalid hauled her up, spun her around, and bent her over a stained wooden crate. He shoved her sari up around her waist, baring her wet cunt. One hand pinned her down; the other guided his cock to her entrance. With a brutal grunt, he slammed into her without warning. Vidya cried out, the shock of his invasion ripping through her – a sharp sting followed by deep, spreading heat as her body stretched around his thickness. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, hips pistoning, each thrust driving her hips against the crate’s splintered edge. She gasped for air, her cries muffled against her own arm as he buried himself to the hilt again and again.
He leaned forward, his sweat-drenched chest pressing against her back, teeth scraping her shoulder. “Tight little Brahmin cunt,” he snarled, driving deeper, harder. The filthy praise sent a jolt through her – shame warring with fierce arousal. Her breasts bounced freely with every jarring impact, nipples hard and aching. She felt herself clenching around him, the friction building a desperate pressure low in her belly. “Yes… harder!” she gasped, the words torn from her, surprising even her. He obeyed, slamming into her cervix, making her sob with a mix of pain and dizzying pleasure.
Her thighs trembled violently as the first orgasm tore through her – a raw, shuddering wave that left her limp against the crate. Khalid didn’t slow. He gripped her hips tighter, fingers digging bruises into her fair skin, pounding relentlessly. She felt another climax building fast, tighter, brighter, as his thrusts grew frantic. “Cumming… I’m cumming!” she wailed, her voice cracking. Her inner muscles clenched and pulsed around his cock in frantic spasms, slickness soaking her thighs.
With a guttural roar, Khalid shoved impossibly deep, pinning her hips still. She felt his cock swell, pulse violently inside her, and then the hot, thick flood filling her up. He held himself buried to the root, grinding as jets of cum pumped deep into her womb. Vidya whimpered, feeling the wet heat spread, the sheer forbidden intimacy of it making her dizzy. He stayed lodged inside her, breathing raggedly against her neck, both trembling in the damp, filthy alley as the market sounds roared just beyond the crumbling brick walls.
comic? Bhabhi ji ghar par hai
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out. Vidya gasped as a rush of their mingled fluids – his semen and her own slickness – trickled down her inner thighs, sticky and warm against her skin. Khalid tucked himself away, his movements rough, practical. He adjusted her sari blouse roughly over her bruised breasts, not meeting her eyes. “Clean yourself,” he muttered, handing her a stained rag from his pocket. His voice was flat, devoid of the fierce heat of moments before. The shift was jarring.
Vidya dabbed gingerly at her thighs, the rough fabric scratching her tender skin. The sharp scent of cumin and turmeric from the nearby stalls mixed with the musky, undeniable smell of sex clinging to her. Shame washed over her in a cold wave, sharpening as she heard the distinct clang of brassware from Khalid’s stall. He was already walking away, back to his polished world, leaving her standing amidst refuse, her silk sari damp and askew. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with arousal now, but with a sudden, choking fear of discovery.
She leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, legs still unsteady. The rough scrape on her knee stung, a stark reminder of where she’d knelt. She glanced back towards the busy market lane. Her husband’s favourite turmeric seller was right there, cheerful and oblivious. The mundane reality of her life – the grocery list, the expectation of dinner simmering on the stove by six – crashed into her violently. How long had she been gone? Panic tightened her throat. She fumbled to straighten her clothes, fingers trembling as she tried to wipe the undeniable evidence from her skin, the sticky trail mocking her frantic efforts.
A child’s high-pitched squeal pierced the alley entrance. Vidya froze, heart hammering against her ribs loud enough to drown out the market’s roar. She squeezed deeper into the shadows, pressing herself flat against the damp brick. Peeking out, she saw Rohan’s best friend’s mother, Mrs. Sharma, bargaining enthusiastically for potatoes just yards away. One sideways glance into this alley… Vidya held her breath until the woman moved on, oblivious. The narrow escape left her shaking, sweat beading cold on her forehead despite the lingering heat Khalid had left inside her.
Her fingers trembled as she smoothed her crumpled sari, the silk clinging stubbornly to her damp thighs. She scrubbed harder with Khalid’s stained rag, the coarse fabric scraping her tender skin raw. It only smeared the sticky mess – his thick cum mixed with her own slickness – into a glistening trail down her inner legs. The pungent, metallic smell of sex clung thickly to her, impossible to erase. She hastily pulled her dupatta across her breasts, hiding the angry red marks his teeth and fingers had left on her fair skin. Her nipples still ached, stiff and sensitive against the fabric.
A vendor’s shout – “Fresh coriander!” – sliced through the alley’s heavy silence, jolting Vidya back to the bustling market just steps away. She stumbled forward, legs still shaky, her hips remembering the brutal force of Khalid’s thrusts. Every movement felt raw, exposed. She dabbed frantically at her thighs with the filthy rag Khalid had tossed her, but it only ground the gritty alley filth into her skin alongside the unmistakable slickness leaking out of her. The rough fabric left angry red streaks on her fair skin, failing to hide the sticky trail tracing down her inner legs.
The pungent stink of cumin from a nearby spice cart mingled nauseatingly with the thick, musky scent of sex clinging to her silk sari. Vidya clutched the wet fabric away from her thighs, her knuckles white. Panic tightened her throat as she scanned the crowded lane: Mrs. Sharma was still haggling loudly over onions just yards away, her back turned. One glance, one curious child wandering into the alley… Vidya’s breath hitched. She shoved Khalid’s stained rag deep into her jute bag beside the forgotten turmeric, burying the evidence beneath groceries. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed her crumpled sari, the fine silk whispering secrets against her bruised skin.
A sharp pain flared between her legs when she took a step – Khalid’s rough handling, the crate’s splintered wood – making her wince. She forced herself into the chaotic flow of shoppers, her gait stiff and unnatural. The midday sun beat down, amplifying the sweat beading on her forehead and the phantom heat still pooling low in her belly. She clutched her jute bag tighter, the forgotten turmeric powder inside suddenly feeling like a grotesque alibi.
Mrs. Sharma’s loud chatter about potato prices cut through the crowd, dangerously close. Vidya ducked behind a pyramid of stacked watermelons, pressing a hand to her racing heart. The vendor eyed her suspiciously, his gaze lingering on her rumpled sari and hastily arranged dupatta. She fumbled for coins, buying the smallest melon she could find just to avoid his scrutiny. Its cool, heavy weight in her arms was a stark contrast to the feverish memory of Khalid’s calloused hands gripping her hips.
Turning a corner towards the spice stalls, Vidya froze. Her husband, Rohan, stood haggling over saffron threads. His crisp white kurta glowed under the midday sun. She clutched the watermelon tighter, fingers sinking into its cool rind. Sweat trickled down her temple. Could he smell Khalid on her? Could he see the tremor in her hands?
“Where were you?” Rohan’s voice cut through the crowd noise, sharp with annoyance. He scanned her wrinkled sari, the stray lock of hair plastered to her damp neck. His eyes lingered on the watermelon. “I’ve been searching everywhere. The mechanic called – the car’s ready.” Vidya’s throat tightened. She forced a smile, shifting the melon to hide her stained thigh. “
Just… finding turmeric.” The lie tasted bitter, metallic. She gestured weakly toward her jute bag, praying he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor in her arm or the damp patch darkening the silk clinging to her inner thigh. Khalid’s scent, musky and intimate, seemed to radiate from her skin.
Rohan’s gaze sharpened, drifting from the watermelon she clutched like a shield to the raw scrape visible just above her sari’s hemline. “You’re bleeding,” he stated flatly, pointing at her knee where dried blood mingled with alley grit. Vidya’s breath hitched. She hadn’t noticed the cut deepening with every step. Before she could deflect, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers tightening around the fading bruises Khalid had left hours earlier. “And this?” His voice dropped, dangerously quiet.
She flinched, her pulse roaring in her ears as he yanked her dupetta aside. The bite marks on her collarbone stood out livid against her fair skin, unmistakable in the harsh sunlight. Around them, the market’s chaos faded into a suffocating silence. Vidya’s mouth went dry, her mind scrambling for words that wouldn’t come. Khalid’s cum, still warm inside her, felt like a brand.
Rohan’s knuckles whitened around her arm, his face hardening into stone. “Whose?” The word sliced through the air, sharp as shattered glass. Nearby shoppers paused, sensing the storm brewing. Vidya’s legs trembled, threatening to buckle. She opened her mouth to lie, to beg but only a choked gasp escaped. The sticky wetness between her thighs seemed to pulse with every heartbeat, a damning testament.
Suddenly, Khalid’s voice cut through the tension, cold and deliberate from behind a stack of brass pots. “She fell, sahib. Near my stall.” He stepped forward, wiping grease from his hands, eyes locked on Rohan’s grip. “Helped her up myself.” His lie hung in the air, thick with challenge. Vidya froze, caught between her husband’s crushing hold and Khalid’s smoldering stare, the scent of their sex clinging to her like a curse.
Rohan’s eyes narrowed, darting from Khalid’s defiant stance to Vidya’s trembling lips. “You touched her?” he hissed, shoving Vidya aside as he lunged. Khalid sidestepped smoothly, grabbing Rohan’s wrist with a grip like iron. The crowd drew breath, vendors pausing mid-haggle. Khalid leaned in, voice a venomous whisper only Rohan could hear: “She begged for it. Dripped all over my cock.” Rohan roared, swinging wildly, but Khalid twisted his arm hard, sending him stumbling into a pyramid of saffron packets that burst open in a cloud of gold.
Vidya staggered back, the spilled saffron staining her sari hem as Rohan scrambled up, face crimson. Khalid smirked, wiping his hands on his trousers the same hands that had bruised her breasts minutes ago. “Careful, pandit,” he taunted, loud enough for nearby onlookers. “Your wife’s clumsy. Next time she falls…” He let the threat hang, eyes raking over Vidya’s disheveled form. She felt Khalid’s cum seep warm between her thighs, the wet patch spreading visibly beneath her thin silk.
Rohan lunged again, but two spice vendors grabbed his arms, holding him back as he spat curses. Khalid turned to Vidya, ignoring the chaos. He plucked a stray jasmine from her hair left from their alley encounter and tucked it behind his own ear. “Finish your shopping,” he murmured, brushing her hip. His knuckles grazed the bite mark on her neck, hidden by her dupatta. “I’ll find you tonight.” Then he melted into the crowd, leaving Vidya trembling amidst spilled spices and her husband’s shattered pride, the jasmine’s sweet scent clashing with the musk between her legs.
Vidya bent to gather the saffron packets, fingers shaking. Rohan yanked her upright, his whisper cold against her ear: “Explain this.” He thrust Khalid’s stained rag now crusted with saffron and her wetness into her hand. She flinched at the touch, the coarse fabric burning her palm. Around them, whispers spread like wildfire Mrs. Sharma’s eyes widened, darting from Vidya’s rumpled sari to the rag. A child pointed at the crimson smear on Vidya’s knee. “Blood, Mummy!” Vidya’s breath hitched. The watermelon slipped from her grasp, splitting open on the cobblestones, red pulp pooling like accusation.
Rohan dragged her toward their car, parked crookedly near Khalid’s stall. Brass lamps reflected her dishevelment dupatta askew, sari clinging wetly to her thighs. Khalid leaned against his cart, polishing a vase with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on Vidya. As Rohan fumbled with the keys, Khalid traced the vase’s curve a mimicry of how he’d gripped her hip. Vidya’s skin prickled. She felt Khalid’s cum trickle down her inner thigh, warm and thick, soaking deeper into the silk.
Inside the car, Rohan slammed the door. “Speak,” he demanded, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The scent of saffron and sex filled the cramped space. Vidya stared at her lap, where Khalid’s stained rag lay crumpled. “He lied,” she whispered. “I fell near the spice crates.” Rohan snatched the rag, sniffing it musky, metallic. His nostrils flared. “This isn’t sweat, Vidya.” He flung it against the dashboard, saffron powder blooming like a wound.
Silence thickened. Outside, Khalid laughed loudly at a customer’s joke the same laugh that had vibrated against her back as he pounded into her. Rohan’s jaw tightened. “We’ll see what your father says.” Vidya’s breath caught. Her father’s rigid Brahmin pride would shatter her. She imagined Khalid’s hands rough, possessive and a traitorous pulse throbbed between her legs. The wetness there felt like a brand.
Rohan started the engine. As they pulled away, Vidya glanced back. Khalid met her eyes, fingertips brushing his lips a silent reminder of her mouth on him. Then he spat on the ground, turning back to his brassware. Vidya clenched her thighs, stifling a whimper. The car hit a pothole, jolting her sore body. Khalid’s cum seeped anew, warm and accusing, against the car seat.
At home, Rohan shoved her into their bedroom. “Strip,” he ordered, voice icy. Vidya trembled, peeling off her stained silk. The scent of sex and saffron clung thickly in the air. Rohan’s gaze raked over her the bite marks on her collarbone, the rug burns on her knees, the sticky trail glistening down her inner thighs. He grabbed her chin. “Filth,” he hissed. Outside, rain began hammering the windows, echoing the frantic drumming of her heart.
Hours later, Vidya lay rigid in bed, Rohan snoring beside her. Moonlight sliced through the curtains, illuminating Khalid’s jasmine flower dropped from his ear on her nightstand. Its sweet fragrance warred with the lingering musk on her skin. She touched herself, fingers slipping through the wetness Khalid left behind, and shuddered. Her hips arched off the mattress, chasing the ghost of his brutal thrusts, shame burning hotter than pleasure.
A sharp tap at the window shattered the silence. Khalid’s silhouette filled the pane, rain-slicked and grinning. He mimed unlocking the latch. Vidya froze, torn between terror and the molten pull low in her belly. Rohan stirred in his sleep. Khalid pressed a palm to the glass, right where her bite mark throbbed a dark promise in the storm’s pulse.
She slipped from bed, silk clinging to damp thighs, and unlatched the window. Khalid slid inside, dripping rainwater onto the rug. His calloused hand clamped over her mouth before she could gasp, his other hand already hiking her nightgown up her hips. “Quiet, panditani,” he breathed against her ear, teeth scraping her neck. His wet jeans pressed cold against her bare skin as he pinned her to the wall beside their sleeping husband.
Rohan snorted, rolling onto his side. Khalid’s fingers dug into Vidya’s thigh, forcing her leg wider. He shoved his cock into her aching cunt without warning a brutal, familiar stretch that stole her breath. She bit his palm to stifle a cry, her climax already coiling tight as he fucked her hard against the trembling wall, each thrust jolting her body with sharp, wet sounds.
He came deep inside her again, hot and thick, grinding his hips to pump every drop into her womb. Vidya sagged, slickness dripping down her trembling legs as Khalid vanished back into the downpour. She wiped her thighs with her ruined nightgown, the musk of their sex thick in the air. Rohan mumbled in his sleep, oblivious. Outside, thunder cracked like the splintering of her world.
At dawn, Rohan thrust divorce papers at her across the breakfast table cold, crisp sheets that smelled of ink and betrayal. “Sign them,” he demanded, eyes hollow. Vidya’s hand shook, the pen scratching loudly. Her father arrived, face like stone, refusing to meet her gaze. “You are dead to us,” he declared, spitting on the floor before turning away. The door slammed shut, leaving her alone with the taste of ash in her mouth.
Vidya packed a single bag her silk saris, Khalid’s stained rag tucked beneath them. She walked through Chandni Chowk one last time, past Khalid’s stall. He polished a vase, fingers tracing its curve as he met her eyes a slow, deliberate smirk. “Need help, panditani?” he called, loud enough for nearby vendors to hear. Vidya clutched her bag tighter, hips aching with the memory of his thrusts, and kept walking toward the bus station.
The bus rattled out of Delhi, dust swirling in its wake. Vidya pressed her forehead to the grimy window, Khalid’s cum still warm between her thighs. Her fingers traced the bite marks on her collarbone a roadmap to ruin. Somewhere behind her, the market roared on, swallowing her old life whole. The road ahead stretched empty, terrifying, and utterly hers.
At a roadside dhaba near Meerut, she washed her legs in a filthy sink stall. The cold water stung her raw skin, mingling with Khalid’s sticky residue as it dripped down the drain. Outside, truck drivers leered over steaming chai. One whistled low “Brahmin beauty lost?” his eyes raking her damp sari clinging to her hips. Vidya clutched Khalid’s rag in her pocket, its coarse fabric grounding her.
The bus groaned into Lucknow at midnight. Rain lashed the terminal, soaking her thin silk. A rickshaw driver offered shelter, his hand lingering too long on her waist. “Cheap room, madam?” She shook her head, walking blindly into the downpour. Lightning flashed, illuminating Khalid’s smirk in every puddle her cunt throbbed, slick with memory.
She found a flophouse near the station. The room smelled of mildew and desperation. Vidya locked the door, stripped naked, and sank onto the stained mattress. Khalid’s scent clung to her skin musky, metallic, undeniable. Her fingers slid between her legs, finding herself swollen and wet. She came violently, biting her fist to silence the cry, Khalid’s phantom thrusts driving her hips into the thin mattress. Outside, the city slept. Inside, shame burned hotter than release.
Morning brought harsh sunlight and a pounding headache. Vidya washed at the communal tap, icy water sluicing over her bruised thighs. The stares of other women were knives. She bought cheap salwar kameez from a roadside stall, dumping her silk sari in a gutter. The vendor’s leer followed her “Fresh meat, huh?” His hand brushed her hip. She flinched, Khalid’s grip echoing in the touch.
A job interview at a dingy export office. The manager’s eyes crawled over her damp kurta. “Experience?” he asked, leaning close. His breath smelled of stale paan. Vidya lied smoothly, voice steady while her nails dug crescents into her palms. He hired her on the spot. “Start tomorrow.” His smile promised more than wages. As she left, he patted her ass. She froze, Khalid’s bite flaring on her neck.
Back on the street, rain began. Vidya ducked into a chai stall. Steam fogged the windows. A familiar voice cut through the clatter “One chai, strong.” Khalid stood at the counter, rainwater glistening on his leather jacket. He turned, saw her, and grinned slow, predatory. “Lost your pandit, Brahmani?” He slid onto the bench beside her, thigh pressing hot against hers. “Need a real man now?” His hand gripped her knee under the table, fingers digging into the fading bruises. Vidya’s breath hitched. The chai seller winked.
[…] Khalid – a Muslim brassware vendor […]