Sanskari bhabhi and her Topiwala friend
“Look, I’m not here to judge,” Akram said, leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes averted from the half-dressed Sanskari bhabhi rummaging through the fridge. She had called him over under the guise of fixing the broken TV antenna, but it was clear that wasn’t the only thing on her mind.
Her name was Naina, and she was the epitome of the modern Indian woman. A perfect blend of tradition and modernity, she had the neighbors fooled with her daily rituals of applying vermilion on her forehead and chanting mantras. Yet, today, she had let her hair down, quite literally, and the desire in her eyes was unmistakable. Akram, the local electrician, was a man of simple tastes and even simpler beliefs. He had grown up in a village where the concept of a “Sanskari” bhabhi was as real as the cows that roamed the streets. But here in the city, he had seen enough to question the authenticity of such tags.
Naina closed the fridge door, her silk sari slipping further down her shoulder, revealing the deep red blouse beneath. She turned to face Akram, her eyes gleaming with a mix of lust and curiosity. “I’ve heard it’s different with you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Akram looked at her, his heart racing. He knew what she meant, and for a second, he considered walking away. But something about the way she said it, the way she looked at him, made him stay.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, playing along, his eyes tracing the curve of her neck.
“The way you look at me,” she replied, taking a step closer. “I see it in your eyes every time you come over.”
Akram swallowed hard. “I look at every problem the same way, bhabhi,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.
Naina smirked, closing the distance between them. “But I’m not just any problem, am I?” she whispered, her hand brushing against his chest. Akram’s resolve wavered, and before he knew it, his hand was on the small of her back, pulling her closer.
Their kiss was electric, a dance of tongues and teeth that spoke of a passion long suppressed. Naina’s hands found their way under his shirt, her nails digging into his skin as he kissed her neck. Akram’s hands moved up her body, caressing her curves as if he were worshipping a deity.
The kitchen floor was cold against their skin as they stumbled into a rhythm that seemed to have a life of its own. Naina’s sari fell away, and Akram’s clothes followed suit. They were two bodies, entwined in a moment that was both sacred and sinful, a secret they would share for the rest of their lives.
The world outside continued as it always did, the chai vendor calling out to his customers, children playing in the streets, and the distant honking of rickshaws. But inside that small flat, the only sounds were those of passionate whispers and the occasional clatter of a pot or pan as their bodies collided with the kitchen appliances.
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