I had been living alone in our quiet Hyderabad apartment for six months when I first noticed her – Shabana – across the narrow corridor.
Every morning I’d step out for work or groceries, and there she’d be, perfectly covered… hijab wrapped tight, loose kurti and salwar hiding every curve, only her silhouette teasing through the soft fabric.
I never saw her full face. Never her lips, never her eyes properly. But the shape of her body, even buried under clothes, was enough to make my heart beat like mad. Sometimes I’d catch glimpses – her thick arms when she tucked stray hair inside her hijab, the slight swell of her hips, the way her full thighs moved when she walked. Each sight, each almost-touch, fed a hunger inside me I couldn’t ignore.
Her husband was always there too – tall, rough-looking, very possessive. The perfect guard for such a hidden treasure.
But he used to leave early for work, and those few hours in the day… she was alone. That’s when I’d secretly watch her. Sweeping the floor, hanging clothes on the balcony, adjusting her dupatta when it slipped too low. I imagined every inch of her under those layers.
How soft would her stomach be? How would her ass jiggle if I grabbed it hard? Would she moan if I bit her neck? It was pure torture.
One afternoon, I saw her door cracked open. My heart hammered. Through the gap, I got my first proper glimpse – the soft dip of her waist, the outline of her breasts pressing against her kameez, her dupatta hanging loose on her shoulders.
I stood frozen, devouring her with my eyes… until she spun around, noticed me, gasped, and slammed the door shut.
Fuck! That stolen moment haunted me for days after.
I started timing my exits, hoping to cross her path when her hubby was away. The craving grew insane. Finally, one afternoon, I saw her struggling with a heavy bag of groceries near her door. Without thinking, I stepped out.
“Let me help,” I offered, my voice way too shaky.
She hesitated. Looked left and right nervously. Then gave a tiny nod.
Her fingers brushed mine as we lifted the bag together – even through the cloth, her touch made my whole body light up.
Inside, her flat smelled like masalas and cardamom and something sweet, just like her. I carried the groceries to her small kitchen while she followed silently. The way her body moved, the soft sway of her hips, the curve of her back – fuck, I could barely focus.
While unpacking, our hands kept grazing. Her dupatta slipped once, showing the creamy skin of her neck. I wanted to lean down and taste it so bad it hurt.
We finished stacking everything and just stood there… awkward, silent, breathing fast.
The tension between us was unbearable.
Then she reached out.
Her small hand touched my chest, hesitantly, then rested there.
Her fingers were trembling.
I covered her hand with mine. She looked up at me – her eyes dark and scared but full of something else too – need. I leaned down. Our lips met in a kiss so soft, so desperate, like we’d both been dying for it forever.
She gasped into my mouth, grabbing my kurta like she wanted to pull me inside her. I pressed her back against the counter, feeling the full softness of her body against mine.
The dupatta slid down completely now, exposing her neckline and a hint of her heavy cleavage. I cupped her breast over the fabric, feeling her nipple harden instantly against my palm.
Shabana whimpered – a tiny, broken sound – but she didn’t stop me. She clung to me tighter, grinding her hips against my hard-on, making my control snap. I lifted her onto the counter in one rough move. Her legs opened instinctively, welcoming me closer.
I pushed her salwar down, revealing thick, soft thighs and the bare skin above them. No panties. My cock throbbed painfully inside my pants. I buried my face between her thighs, licking her sweetness hungrily.
She covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from moaning too loud, her body shuddering against my tongue.
“Bas… bas… koi dekh lega,” she whispered, but her hips kept moving against my face.
I slid two fingers inside her soaking wet pussy while sucking her clit gently, feeling her walls tighten like a vice.
She came within minutes, clenching around my fingers, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes from holding back the scream.
When it was over, I cleaned her up, helped her fix her clothes.
She kissed my fingers shyly before slipping back to her flat, like nothing had happened.
But everything had changed.
—
The next few days were pure torture.
Every time I saw her – carrying water, sweeping her balcony – I remembered the taste of her. The sounds she made. The way her thighs had squeezed my head. But we acted normally. Safe. Until that night.
Around 2 am, just as I was dozing off, I heard it. Three soft knocks. At first, I thought I imagined it. But when I opened the door… there she was. Shabana. Hair loose, a shawl thrown over her nightie, eyes wide with terror and heat.
Without a word, I pulled her inside. She pressed a finger to her lips – shhh – then pointed upstairs. Her hubby was fast asleep. Old apartments, thick walls, bedroom door closed – no chance he would hear unless she screamed.
The risk made it even hotter. I crushed her against the wall, kissing her hard, pulling the shawl off her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a thin cotton nightie, clinging to every curve, her nipples poking against the fabric.
I couldn’t wait anymore. I ripped the nightie off in one quick move. She gasped, trying to cover herself, but I grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head.
I stared at her like a starving man. Shabana was gorgeous. Full, creamy thighs. A soft round belly. Big heavy tits swaying with every panting breath. Dark pink nipples stiff and begging for my mouth.
I bit my lip, fighting the urge to just throw her on the bed and fuck her senseless. I kissed down her neck, biting, licking, leaving marks she’d have to hide tomorrow. Her body writhed under me, her legs opening wider, inviting.
I dropped to my knees, spread her thighs, and started eating her out like a man possessed. Her taste drove me insane. She grabbed my hair, grinding her pussy on my face, whispering filthy things.
When she came, she almost collapsed, sobbing into her hand. I stood up, my cock already leaking, pushing my jeans down in seconds.
No more games. I lifted her in my arms and threw her on the bed. She lay there, legs spread, body open, eyes begging.
“Please… chaahiye…” she whispered brokenly.
I slammed into her in one hard stroke. She cried out, biting the pillow to muffle herself. I fucked her rough, fast, desperate. My balls slapping against her soaked pussy, the bed creaking under us. Her walls squeezed me tight, her nails scratching my back bloody.
“Zyada… aur zyada,” she whimpered, throwing her legs around my waist, locking me inside her.
I fucked her harder, losing control completely, slamming into her again and again till we both were shaking. Flipped her over, took her from behind, gripping her hair, her hips, using her body like it was mine.
“Bas andar hi rakhna,” she begged in broken Hindi, voice slurring from pleasure.
“Main sirf tumhari hoon,” she sobbed.
I lost it. With a final hard thrust, I exploded inside her, filling her up till it leaked down her thighs. I collapsed over her, both of us gasping for air, our bodies stuck together with sweat. For a few minutes, we didn’t move.
Finally, she kissed my neck – so soft, so tender – like a thank you. Like goodbye.
She dressed silently, covering the love marks I’d left all over her skin.