I have been married for almost eight years now. Arjun, my husband, is a good man. He really is. Kind in a quiet way, funny, though not the kind of funny that makes you laugh out loud, but responsible. Always doing the right thing. He still brings me tulips on my birthday because he remembers they were my favorite flowers when we first met. He still calls me “jaan” even when we’re fighting, but it’s more of a reflex now than a real expression of love.
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere between paying the bills and filling the plate, somewhere between the dinners we cook in silence and the muted sex once a week usually, I started feeling invisible. He comes home tired from work. He kisses me on the forehead when he enters, like that’s supposed to make everything okay. I wake up early, in the silence of the morning. I make breakfast, I water the plants. I do all the little things that make the day move forward, but it feels like I’m just moving through time, waiting for it to mean something.
We share a bed, but we rarely touch. We’ve forgotten how to. I’ve stopped trying to explain the ache that settles into me every day. It’s not even about the sex anymore. It’s about the feeling that no one sees me. Not really. Not anymore.
Then, a few weeks ago, a new tenant moved into the apartment next door. It started as nothing. I remember the first morning I noticed him. I was stepping out onto the balcony, holding my cup of chai, still sleepy from the night before. I was used to the usual view, the same buildings, the same street noise. But that morning, I saw him.
He was standing there, right on the balcony next door. Shirtless, broad shoulders, lean frame, the kind of body that’s built with purpose, like he was alive. He had a cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look at me. Not once. He just stood there. Just… existing. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t look away. I had a weird little lurch in my stomach. I’d always been the kind of woman who kept to herself, who didn’t make waves. But there was something about him.
I sipped my chai slowly, trying to keep my hands from trembling, and I retreated behind the curtain. Maybe he hadn’t seen me. Maybe he wasn’t even aware that I was standing there, a few feet away, watching him. Maybe it didn’t matter. But it felt like it did.
The next day, he was there again. Same time. Same spot. Cigarette between his fingers. That calm, masculine stillness. This time, I looked at him. He didn’t look back. I don’t know why I felt disappointed. I wasn’t trying to start anything. I don’t even know how to. I’m not the kind of woman who flirts. I barely even talk unless someone talks to me first.
On the third day, honestly, I thought maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe it had just been a coincidence, timing, habit, nothing more. But when I stepped out with my chai, he was already there. This time, he looked at me. We made eye contact, just for a second or two. His gaze was steady, unbothered. Mine wasn’t. I looked away first. I tucked my hair behind my ear. It was a reflex, a nervous one. I don’t even know why I did it.
And I turned back inside like it was just another morning. Like nothing had happened. But something had, even if it was small. He took another drag from his cigarette, turned away, and disappeared into his apartment. Like it was any other morning. But for me? It wasn’t.
After that, it became a rhythm. I don’t even know. I just know it started something inside me. Every day, around the same time, I’d step out with my chai in my nightdress. And he used to be there already, leaning on the balcony railing like he’d been waiting. That same stillness in him, like nothing in the world could rush him. Not time, not weather, not even me. We never spoke, never smiled, not once. But his eyes, they didn’t need to say anything.
They weren’t friendly, they weren’t flirtatious. They were focused, heavy, dark. He didn’t scan my body, he didn’t make it obvious, he just looked with this terrifying, beautiful calm like he could read the ache behind my robe. The years I’d spent feeling untouched, unseen, and something in me shifted.
I started choosing my clothes more carefully. The white nightdress that was worn thin at the sides, the one I hadn’t worn since before we got married. I left the robe untied, didn’t braid my hair, let it fall loose down my back. I didn’t even realize I was dressing for him until I did.
One morning, he didn’t just look anymore, he stared. Not in a vulgar way, not the kind of stare that felt cringe. His gaze was slow, steady, like he had time. Like he had permission. It wasn’t just the way he stood, either. It was his presence, heavy. And I began to notice what that did to me. At first, it was small things. I’d touch my neck while sipping my chai, letting my fingers linger there longer than needed. I’d shift my weight on purpose, leaning into the railing, letting the cotton of my nightdress stretch tighter across my breasts and butt.
Part of me told myself it was harmless, just boredom, just play, isn’t it? But I was paying attention. And so was he too.
One day, I stepped out and saw his eyes drop before they reached my face. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scan. Just… looked, low and slow. When our eyes finally met, he didn’t look away. My breath caught, it wasn’t fear. It was awareness, hunger. Something old was waking up again.
After that day, I started leaving the glass sliding door slightly open. Just enough for him to see the invitation in it. Just enough to say, “You could walk in, and I wouldn’t stop you.” Some mornings, I bent down to water the plants. Slowly. Let the nightdress ride up just a little too far. I didn’t adjust it right away. One day, I stretched my arms overhead, let my robe part just slightly at the front. I held it for a second longer than necessary, long enough to be noticed.
Another time, I dropped my dupatta on purpose. Let it slip, let it stay. Picked it up slowly, with my back to him. He never smiled at my acts, never nodded, never made a move. But the cigarettes burned quicker in his hand now. His jaw clenched more often. He was watching me like he already knew how I’d taste. And the worst part? I was starting to wish he’d come find out.
But then… one morning, I did something stupid. I walked out to the balcony like I did every morning. I stood there, sipping my tea, my mind drifting. I couldn’t shake the thought of him, of those quiet moments when he stood on his balcony, watching me. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for, but today… it felt different. I moved closer to the glass door of the balcony. Like I wanted him to see me, to notice my presence.
Without thinking, I reached for the lipstick I’d left on the kitchen counter. The red was bold. It felt like the color was daring me. Daring me to do something reckless. I swiped the lipstick across my lips. Then, I stepped closer to the window. Slowly, I pressed my lips to the glass, a red mark, a perfect imprint. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a message to him.
I stepped back, I was in fear. My body felt warm, and the heat of the moment rushed into me. I didn’t look back, though I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Something in me told me it was done. The signal was sent.
Honestly, I didn’t expect him to come. I didn’t even know if he’d see it. But I couldn’t stop the rush of anticipation that flooded my mind. But then… I heard a sound. A faint creak. A soft weeping of the floor. The sound was so slight, but it felt like it reverberated through the room. My heart skipped a beat. Another creak. Closer now. I froze, every muscle tensed, and I held my breath, waiting.
I slowly turned around. And there he was. He didn’t come through the door. There was no knock, no words exchanged. It was just silence before a storm. He had climbed. Somehow, he had climbed from his balcony to mine. I had no idea how, pushing off pipes, using the railing, whatever he had done, it didn’t matter. He was here, in my space. Standing in my living room, an unexpected presence. A silent predator, uninvited, unstoppable. The glass door clicked shut behind him, and I could feel the vibrations in my chest.
My body felt heavy, like the weight of everything was pressing down on me, making it hard to move. My legs went weak, and my breath was unsteady. I didn’t move, and I couldn’t. I could feel the heat of his body, even though he hadn’t come close yet. His eyes were on me, steady and unyielding. There was no more hiding; I wasn’t invisible anymore.
My back was pressed against the wall. My pulse quickened, and I was paralyzed, torn between fear and something else that I couldn’t name. He took a step toward me, slow, measured. It was happening, it was real. And I wasn’t stopping it. He was now standing in front of me, staring with his dark look.
Then he acted. Suddenly, he grabbed my blonde hair hard, forcing me to gasp. His other hand was at the waistband of his pants, fumbling to free his rigid, hardened dick. Before I could react, he yanked my head to his bulge, pulling my hair. He unhooked his pants and drew out his broad, long dick. I watched in horror as it sprang out, thick and imposing. My eyes widened as he grabbed a fistful of my hair once more, this time pulling down towards him with brutal force. My face slammed against the hard dick. The tip of his dick probed between my lips before ramming deep into my throat.
I was choked and gagged in a moment with his dick’s girth invading me so suddenly. Tears streamed down my face as he started to move, each brutal stroke slamming the back of my throat. My cries began to come out with deep throats, my vision blurs from lack of oxygen. It was the first time I was experiencing such excitement. His balls smacked repeatedly against my chin, jolting me. Each movement was strong and unrelenting, that rough rhythm left me breathless.
My cheeks burned, and I could feel the saliva dripping down from my chin to the white nightdress I had worn. I could feel the salty taste of pre-cum coating my tongue. He stopped and pulled out his dick from my mouth. I was looking up into his eyes. His hand shot out to grip my chin with a rough, unyielding strength. Without warning, he yanked my head back sharply, forcing me to follow his pull.
The sudden, harsh movement threw me off balance, and I stumbled forward, caught between resistance and the undeniable power in his grip. I stood in front of him. I was supposed to say something, but before I could react, he pushed me back. Firm, steady, not rough but not gentle either. I stumbled again, then found myself sitting down hard on the edge of the counter. He held me like he knew how to. Like he’d done it before, in his mind, many times.
In one clean motion, he lifted me off the floor. I rested my butt on the counter. My breath hitched. I wasn’t scared; instead, I was ready, or at least, I thought I was. My back hit the wall. I was wet, he put his hand inside my nightie and pulled my panties down to my knees. I lifted my ass a bit up for a smoother slide of the panties, like I was following him. I wanted to obey him, to be honest. I was liking that control.
He came closest to me, I parted my legs to let him position himself. He held both my butt cheeks to push my pussy to his dick. Meanwhile, I grabbed his dick firmly and directed it into my pussy while he was pushing me closer. He began with his strokes, and I wrapped my legs around him, almost instinctively. My nightdress bunched around my ass. I felt him pressing into me, no fumbling, no hesitation. It was happening. Finally.
There was no kiss. No whisper. Everything physical, fast, and yet, he wasn’t rushing. He was composed, completely in control of the moment. He was hard this time too; his strokes were rougher than I experienced with Arjun. In between, he slipped his hand inside my dress, moving up to press my breasts against my chest. I was braless, his fingers spread around my breast and gripped the curve of my body with a rough, commanding strength. He was not less than muscling my breast.
His body was strong-built. Every move was calculated. He knew how to hold me, how to move. He had presence, his gaze was unreadable to me, but locked on mine for a heartbeat. It made me feel naked in more ways than one. Everything was amazing, I was liking that all. And then… just like that… I saw a rush in him for the first time. I felt wet in my pussy; it was his cum. He finished before I could imagine.
His grip loosened; he stepped back. Zipped up. No words. No apology. Not even a glance. He turned, walked to the door this time, and stepped out of the apartment. I stood there, legs weak, dress twisted around my waist. My body was still trembling from the pleasure, from the shock, from the speed. From how suddenly the silence had returned.
He had the look, the control, the patience. But not the endurance. Not the finish, not the follow-through. Either way, I was still there. Still aching, still unsatisfied, still… alone. He had everything: money, charm, strength, a magnetic presence that made heads turn and hearts race. His jawline was sharp, his voice low and commanding, and his confidence had filled the room like a storm. Yet, in bed, he was a ghost of that man. Hollow, empty. A spark that faded before it could ignite.
I wondered if it was the excitement, the adrenaline of the moment that overwhelmed him. Or maybe it was the cigarettes he chain-smoked, the late nights drowned in drinks, the toll his reckless lifestyle took on his health. I didn’t know. The next morning, I stood on the balcony, but he was gone. Days passed, then he returned, same cigarette hanging from his lips, same commanding presence. But his eyes told a different story. There was a flicker of awkwardness, a shadow of embarrassment that hadn’t been there before.
His gaze was replaced by a hesitant glance, as if he couldn’t face the memory of his failure of fucking me. After that, he never met my eyes with the same strength. And we never crossed that line again. But I am still here, quiet but burning, holding onto heat. Waiting for someone to light this fire in me.
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