The thump of Bollywood remixes still pulsed in my veins as the final guests from Rohan’s 23rd birthday party shuffled out of his small flat in Bandra. It was a typical Mumbai night, humid air thick with the aroma of street-side vada pav and the faint smoke from firecrackers we’d burst earlier in celebration.
I had turned 21 just months ago, my body carrying the soft allure of 34-30-36 curves that my salwar kameez usually hid, but tonight’s party outfit – a fitted anarkali top and churidar – had accentuated perfectly. With the local trains packed and an auto-rickshaw hard to snag at this hour, Rohan had waved off my protests. “Stay over, yaar,” he’d insisted, his easy smile lighting up his face, the one that had always made me feel safe since our college days at St. Xavier’s.
His flat was a lived-in chaos: disposable plates strewn with remnants of biryani and gulab jamun, fairy lights twinkling from the balcony railing, and the couch bearing the imprints of dancing feet. Rohan, with his messy black hair and lean, cricket-toned physique, slipped off his kolhapuri sandals by the door and yawned, his kurta untucked to show a glimpse of his flat stomach. I caught myself staring, the buzz from the whiskey punches making my skin tingle, before I busied myself folding a stray dupatta.
“Thoda paani? Or ek last peg?” Rohan asked from the kitchenette, his voice carrying that familiar Mumbaiya lilt, casual yet probing.
“Paani hi sahi,” I said, collapsing onto the couch and easing out of my juttis.
My feet throbbed from swaying to ‘Badtameez Dil’ with the gang, but it was the pleasant kind of fatigue. He came back with two steel glasses, settling next to me so our knees touched. The brush of fabric sent an unexpected warmth up my thigh, and I didn’t move away.
We chatted about the evening’s madness – the uncle who tried bhangra moves too enthusiastically, the cousin who spiked the punch extra strong. Giggles flowed like the chai we’d have in the morning. Rohan had been my constant – through exams, heartbreaks, and late-night Marine Drive walks. But tonight, with the city hum outside the window and the azaan faintly calling from a distant mosque, our talk veered intimate.
“Tu aaj killer lag rahi thi,” he said abruptly, his brown eyes locking on mine. “That anarkali… It has got me thinking things I shouldn’t.”
My heart raced. “Kya things?” I challenged, my tone lighter than the heat pooling in my belly.
He shifted closer, his palm warm on my knee. “The kind where I wonder why we have kept it just friends for so long.”
The space between us crackled. I inhaled his scent – sandalwood attar mixed with the night’s sweat – and before doubt could creep in, I leaned in, my lips meeting his. The kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, but it flared fast. His mouth was soft, flavored with paan masala and the party’s tang, his hand gliding up my thigh to gather the fabric of my churidar.
Rohan paused, breath mingling with mine. “Yeh theek hai na?”
“Haan, bilkul,” I murmured, and that greenlit everything. He kissed me harder, tongue teasing mine in a slow tangle. I sighed against him, my fingers exploring his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath the cotton. He responded with a low rumble, his touch venturing higher, palming my breast over the blouse. My nipple peaked under the pressure, begging for more through the thin dupatta layer.
Clothes became obstacles. I yanked at his kurta, lifting it off to bare his smooth torso, the fine hair trailing down to his waist. He was fit from gully cricket, shoulders broad enough to lean on. His fingers worked the hooks of my anarkali top, peeling it away to reveal my lace bra straining against my 34-inch breasts. He unclasped it deftly, and they tumbled free – full, dark-tipped, heaving with each breath.
“Arre waah, kitni perfect,” he whispered, awe in his voice as he dipped his head, mouth closing over one nipple.
His tongue lapped at it, circling the hardened bud before sucking with building suction. Pleasure shot through me, straight to my core, and I bowed into him, clutching his hair. He switched sides, teeth grazing lightly, drawing whimpers from my throat. The room echoed with the slick sounds of his mouth, his free hand kneading the other breast, thumb flicking the neglected peak.
“Rohan…” I breathed, thighs pressing together against the growing ache. He looked up, lips glistening, and claimed my mouth while shoving my top fully off. Only my panties remained under the loosened churidar, damp and clinging. His fingers traced the wetness, circling the fabric over my slit, making me gasp.
“Itna geela already,” he rasped, eyes hungry. He stood, drawing me up, and we staggered to his bedroom, his pajamas dropping en route. His briefs bulged with his arousal, the shape of his seven-inch cock evident. I cupped it, feeling the rigid heat throb in my palm.
In the dim room, lit by the neon from Linking Road signs, he shed the briefs. His cock stood proud – thick, veined, the tip slick with precum, curving just right. I sank to my knees, gripping the base, skin hot and smooth.
“Main karun?” I asked, and he nodded, fingers tangling in my hair.
“Haan, please.” I took him in, lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling to savor the salty drop. He filled my mouth generously, and I slid down further, sucking with rhythmic pulls. My hand stroked the root, the other fondling his heavy balls, tugging gently. He rocked into me, shallow fucks that had him cursing softly in Hindi, breaths harsh.
“Bahut accha lag raha hai,” he groaned, gaze fixed on my bobbing head. Drool escaped my lips, but the control I held over him fueled me. Soon, he tugged me up. “Abhi nahi. Tujhe taste karna hai.”
He eased me onto the bed, sheets rumpled from earlier naps. My churidar pants and panties vanished, baring my smooth pussy, lips puffy and glistening. Rohan knelt between my legs, kissing up my inner thigh, nipping the soft skin until his breath fanned my folds. His tongue darted out, licking my clit in firm strokes, and I yelped, hips jerking.
Strong hands pinned me as he feasted, tongue plunging into my entrance before lapping upward, sucking my clit with vibrating hums. I leaked onto his face, juices smearing his stubble. Two fingers entered me, hooking to stroke that inner wall, pumping in time with his mouth’s assault. Tension coiled fast, my body arching.
“Rohan, aa raha hai,” I panted, grinding against him. He sped up, fingers curling relentlessly, tongue flicking without mercy. Climax hit like monsoon rain, my pussy spasming around his digits, cries echoing as waves crashed through me.
He lapped until I quivered, then rose, chin shiny. “Tera taste… lajawab.” Positioning over me, his cock prodded my slick opening. I hooked my legs around him, urging him in.
“Andar aa ja,” I pleaded. He pushed forward, slow and deep, his thickness parting me wide, bottoming out with a shared groan. My walls hugged him tight, every inch pulsing inside. He held still, then withdrew and thrust again, building a steady rhythm – deep, measured drives that rubbed all the right spots.
The bed frame rattled as he accelerated, hips slamming into mine. My breasts jiggled with the force, and he latched onto a nipple, sucking hard while pounding into me. Sweat beaded on our skin, the air thick with our mingled scents and the slap of flesh.
“Tu kitni tight hai,” he grunted, tilting to grind his pubic bone against my clit. I clawed his back, matching his pace, chasing the building fire.
We flipped, me astride him now. His hands clamped my hips, directing my descent as I impaled myself, pussy swallowing his length whole. I rolled my hips, clenching around him, leaning to kiss him – tasting my essence on his tongue. His thumb pressed my clit, rubbing in tight circles that drew moans from deep.
“Phir se aa ja mere liye,” he demanded, bucking up hard. The friction shattered me, orgasm ripping free as I squeezed him, milking every drop. He surged twice more, then tensed, cock jerking as he came, flooding me with hot spurts.
We slumped, breathless, limbs entwined. His arms encircled me, lips brushing my temple. “Yeh… unbelievable tha.”
I traced his chest, smiling. “Best birthday surprise?”
He laughed softly. “Haan, aur yeh toh shuruaat hai.”
As the first call to prayer faded into dawn, we dozed off, bodies pressed close, our bond deepened in the quiet intimacy of the morning light. Friendship had evolved, promising endless nights of discovery ahead.