I’m in mixed feelings. A part of my mind regrets doing this since she’s my cousin-in-law. But the other part really loved the raw action and prays for such instances to occur again and again.
I thought of writing about this incident until the memories are still as fresh as a blooming flower. Hope you have a good read.
Chapter 1: Oye, it’s Fry-Day, not Fri-yay.
It was the last working day of February 2026, and when that most-awaited day lands on a Friday, I usually go into full party mode.
It automatically becomes a payday. Salary drops into the bank account like some surprise rain. This is followed by a chill, lazy weekend. The following Monday that starts in a new month feels like a polite knock instead of a tight kick on the balls.
Wanna know what my ideal Friday sounds like? Fri-yay! Early logout, cool breeze of freedom, an evening of enjoying a suspense thriller movie while devouring Chinese food.
But how does it turn out in reality? Typical Fry-day. The kind where your manager adds you to unwanted meetings like it’s some wrestling tag team championship. In other words, you get fried by the management.
Emails get thrown at you with tasks labelled “URGENT” in bold and caps. If you read that in your boss’s voice in your head, it seems as if he is applying pressure while shitting hard bricks.
All this is to ensure that my PPT reaches the US client before their breakfast is served; that is, ideally, our logout time. Typical slave mentality in service-based orgs.
The second half of my day looked crazy, like I’m playing some calendar Tetris. Back-to-back meetings just to discuss what to do in the Tuesday meeting.
Amidst all this chaos, my phone sat ignored in the corner. It vibrated, cried flashing notifications as if saying, “Papa, you forgot scrolling on me. I exist, and I want you to pay attention to me.”
Four and a half hours later, the presentation was approved, emailed, and I finally logged off at 7:30 PM. I was lucky enough that there were no client calls for the remainder of that day. I picked up the phone to see a text from Kalindi Bhabhi that reached my phone at 2 PM.
Now, let’s be honest, everyone does it. You hear a name and your brain auto-generates a cartoony impression of that person. For Kalindi Bhabhi, you would have pictured a middle-aged, conservative, saree-clad, village-raised woman wearing a large bindi.
Or you might’ve pictured some young, horny domestic help wearing a faded kurti and leggings. Giving you a hanging boobies view while she’s bending and sweeping the floor.
The kind of person who catches you peeking at her boobs but later covers it. She gives nothing but a devilish smile with a spicy wink, then continues doing her work anyway.
Boy, you’re in for some surprise then. Kalindi Bhabhi is a well-educated, modern, drop-dead gorgeous, always in trendy clothes and tight jeans that make her look like she is some magazine model. She is my cousin Gaurav’s wife. Gaurav is my Masi’s son.
I read her message:
“Hi Pratty. Today’s going to be a long day at work. Being a phone banker sucks. Customers eat our ears with complaints, and management sucks the life out of us with unrealistic targets. I’ll come to your place this evening at 8-ish. Your dearest cousin, bro Gaurav, has gone to Malaysia for a work trip. His parents have gone to their younger son’s place in Kolkata. They kidnapped my baby with them because they feel I’m fucking ‘incompetent’ at motherhood. I don’t want to spend my Friday night alone. Gaurav always told me about your childhood board games, cards, and those imaginary horror stories you guys narrated. Tonight, it’s me, you, and your wife (Anjali). We’re going to live a night that gives nostalgic vibes. Get all those game kits ready. It’ll compensate for this trash day at work.”
I looked at the time. 7:45 PM. Less than fifteen minutes. My panic mode activated.
Anjali, my parents, and my in-laws were in Bhutan for the tulip festival. My leave had been rejected despite applying months in advance. It’s the classic corporate middle finger. I tried calling Anjali. It seems there’s no network in the hills there.
My texts wouldn’t reach her. Maybe she’ll be able to contact me once she uses the WIFI in the hotel room she’s staying at. I was left to fight this battle on my own.
I texted back like a gentleman: Bhabhi, you might want to reconsider your plans for today. I’m home alone. My folks ditched me for a Bhutan trip. Sorry, I was neck deep in work, so I couldn’t reply. Just saw your messages.
She replied instantly: Pratty, your reply came too late. I’m already getting off the train at your nearest railway station. I’m coming no matter what. Get the games ready. If Anjali isn’t there, fine. We’ll still do the perfect cousin night.
She was travelling in Mumbai’s local train. I tried reasoning with her: Bhabhi, it looks weird. I’m alone, you’re a woman, and I have Snoopy neighbours. All this looks absurd.
She replied back: Pratty, it’s 2026, not 1926. If we spend the night together, so what? I’m not going to murder you. Let the neighbours snoop. I don’t care.
Her typical nature is “My way or the highway.” Disagree, and she’d burst like a volcano. She’ll scream, throw things at you, then act like a cry-baby who’s ice cream was just dropped by you. I was at my wits’ end.
My mind was thinking of ways to escape. Then the video door camera sent me a notification. It also might’ve reached Anjali’s phone. Bhabhi was already at the door. The doorbell rings, and now, simultaneously, Anjali’s phone call also came through. This spells total crisis.
I picked up Anjali’s call first.
Anjali: Hi Pratty, I just got the door-cam notification. Is bhabhi there? You didn’t tell her we’re not at home?
I spilt everything in one breathless paragraph. I talked about today at work, Bhabhi’s message, Gaurav in Malaysia, in-laws kidnapping her baby, her Friday-night loneliness, and the childhood games plan.
Pratty: (taking one deep breath after the long paragraph) I’m scared shitless, Anjali. What to do now?
Anjali: Okay… are you done talking? She’s already there. I suggest not sending her back. Relax, get the game kits out, keep her entertained. We’ll talk later. Bye.
I thought that was it? She didn’t spill jealousy. Didn’t even begin with – explain this shit, mister. Or what the fuck is cooking between you, or is it game night or fuck night? This proved that my wife trusted me more than I trusted myself.
I opened the door. Bhabhi stood there, furious in a mandarin-collar sleeveless kurti, tight leggings, face moist with sweat from the newly started summer. Her underarms were shining like a mirror as they were slick with sweat.
She’s shorter than me, with lightly dusky skin, long hair in a messy elliptical bun held by a claw clip. I take her in. She used her dupatta to pat dry her face, then opened two buttons of her kurti to blow air inside. It revealed half of her cleavage.
Then, like men, she adjusted something at her crotch and said, “This fabric is pricking me down there. Too hot.”
I looked elsewhere like a true gentleman. My inner voice said to me: Do not look. Do not have wrong intentions. Don’t let your feelings topple over someone from the extended family. You will be cooked for life.
I apologised for making her wait and offered to get water for her from the kitchen. She followed me to the kitchen as if she were my tail.
She gulped one glass, asked for another. Meanwhile, I explained the reason for the delay, a tough day at work, Anjali’s call, everything in total panic. She just giggled.
Bhabhi – Pratty, you worry too much. Anjali is chill. Now I need a cold shower. I already bathed in sweat once today.
I offered Anjali’s nightgowns. She grabbed two towels, said “Cya.” and went into the bathroom.
While she showered, I got the old ladder, pulled out dusty board games, Ludo, Chinese checkers, and cards. Everything Gaurav and I hadn’t touched in over a decade. I cleaned the dust off them and kept them down on the floor in the living room, feeling nostalgic.
The bathroom door opened. Bhabhi stepped out, wrapped in nothing but a towel. It covered half her breasts. Nipples barely hidden. Towel ending just below her vagina. She untied the hair towel, shook out wet hair with it, and sprinkled residual drops on me with a mischievous smile.
Pratty – Feel comfortable, you can go to the bedroom and change.
Bhabhi – I will. But first, tell me what your dinner plans are? What do you eat when Anjali’s away?
Pratty – Chinese food. Fried rice, noodles, maybe some chicken starters.
Bhabhi – Perfect. I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll order.
She went inside. I sat on the couch like some Amazon delivery waiting to be unboxed. Bhabhi emerged in one of Anjali’s floral printed nightgowns. She lifted the hem of the fabric near her heel, folded and tucked it like a lungi, revealing more than half of her thigh. Now she looked like some item girl.
Bhabhi – Nightgowns should be short.
She dropped next to me on the couch, spread her legs and rested her heel on the teepoy. She placed the food order on an app. We scrolled through reels in awkward silence until the food arrived.
She insisted we share one plate. I brought two plates anyway. She looked at me, raising her eyebrows as if I owed her money for a long time.
Bhabhi – One is enough. I said ‘share’.
As if there was some unwritten rule that only eating from one plate meant sharing. We unpacked everything onto one giant plate and started eating like kids at a picnic.
She ate the food as if she hadn’t seen them in years. She noticed I was not eating the kebabs. She picked one and tried to force-feed me by hand.
Pratty – I can take it myself.
I resisted like a true gentleman. But she wouldn’t budge. I surrendered. With every bite, her fingers touched my lips. I got it, that was intentional. We finished, eating and cleaned up the mess on the teepoy.
Bhabhi – Let’s open the game kits.
We sat cross-legged opposite each other. Her tucked nightgown gave me clean-shaven pussy views. I tried focusing on our Ludo game. Couldn’t resist and took a glance every now and then. She caught me and gave an evil little smile.
Bhabhi: I see what you did there (giggles).
Surprisingly, she spread her legs even more. Then I ignored.
My Friday had officially gone from fry-day to what-the-fuck-is-happening day! More details in the next part. Stay tuned. Hit me up at prats.kammie@gmail.com if you liked it.