The evening light filters through the expansive windows of Garima Pandey's lavish bungalow, casting a golden hue over the polished marble floors and the plush hall where she lounges on a velvet sofa, her fair skin glowing like porcelain under the soft glow of the TV screen. At 29, Garima is a vision of meticulous self-care, her 34C-30-36 figure a testament to years of disciplined yoga and skincare rituals, her full breasts straining gently against the thin fabric of her silk blouse, her hips curving invitingly in her fitted leggings that hug her rounded buttocks like a thick anaconda’s skin. Her long, dark hair cascades over her shoulders, framing a face that's both innocent and sultry, with plump lips that part slightly as she dials her brother Varun's number, seeking the familiar comfort of sibling chatter to break the monotony of her unfulfilling marriage. Her husband, buried in his multinational job, offers little more than mechanical efforts in bed—quick, unsatisfying movements that leave her yearning quietly for something deeper, thicker, though her well-mannered upbringing keeps such thoughts buried in shame. No affairs in her past, no wandering eyes during school or college; she's always despised Muslim men, imagining them as domineering brutes who treat women with raw, animalistic force in the bedroom. Yet, in the quiet frustrations of her three-year marriage, forbidden whispers of Junaid—her 23-year-old brother Varun's 22-year-old best friend—creep in: the Muslim boy who'd eyed her with hunger in their childhood home, the only one from her past who stirs visions of being taken with the fierce passion her life lacks.
As the phone rings, Garima shifts on the sofa, her thighs pressing together unconsciously, a faint warmth building between her legs from the idle, unwelcome daydreams that plague her evenings. Little does she know, across town in Junaid Malik's sleek car—parked near a bustling samosa stall—Varun has stepped out, leaving his phone behind. Junaid, 22 and brimming with virile energy, sits in the driver's seat, his 5'11" athletic frame clad in a tight t-shirt that outlines his subtle abs, his clean-shaven face sharp and youthful, hiding the beast within: a thick, veiny circumcised phallus that's already claimed three pu**ies, stretching them wide with its dark, serpentine girth, leaving them dripping and begging for more. He's nursed an obsession for Garima since boyhood, jerking off to memories of her swaying hips during visits to Varun's home, fantasising about pinning her down and plowing her senseless, converting her prim body into his personal conquest. To cope with her marriage years ago, he'd turned to her 27-year-old sister Khushi—now his girlfriend—but their relationship remains tame: just heated kisses and light groping over clothes, Khushi's shy, well-brought-up nature mirroring Garima's, leaving Junaid aching for more as he dreams of claiming the elder sister instead. When the phone buzzes with Garima's name, his shaft twitches hard in his jeans, thickening instantly as he glances out the window—Varun's still in line. With a wicked grin, he answers, his voice smooth and teasing: "Hello?"
Garima's breath catches at the unfamiliar male voice, deep and laced with a subtle accent that sends an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "Varun? Who's this?" she asks, her tone sharp and opposing, but a hidden curiosity softens the edge. Junaid leans back in the seat, his free hand absently adjusting his crotch, the fabric straining over his shaft. "It's Junaid," he says with a chuckle, his mind flashing to her teenage curves he'd ogled years ago. "Varun's grabbing samosas. He left his phone. But hey, Garima... long time. How's married life treating you? Still as stunning as I remember?" His words drip with lewd intent, unspoken memories of stealing glances at her cleavage during family visits, imagining sucking on those perky tits while she moaned in forbidden ecstasy.
Garima's heart races, indignation flaring—she hates how his voice stirs her buried desires, reminding her of those lingering stares from her brother's friend, the one she'd dismissed as a perverted boy. "Give the phone to Varun right now," she snaps harshly, her voice laced with virtuous outrage, yet she doesn't hang up immediately, a deep-rooted pull keeping her on the line just long enough for brief, tense exchanges. Junaid probes with casual questions about her life, his tone turning flirtatious: "Bet your husband's a lucky guy, getting to wake up to a fairy every day."
Garima retorts fiercely, "Mind your words, Junaid—you have no right," but inside, her mind wanders guiltily to her husband's pathetic efforts, contrasting them with fleeting, shameful thoughts of Junaid. The call ends abruptly as Varun returns, but the encounter lingers, leaving Garima unsettled, her body warm with conflicted tension she pushes down, refusing to acknowledge it further.
As night deepens and the bungalow falls silent, Garima's restlessness persists. She scrolls through Instagram on her phone, her silk nightie riding up her thighs, exposing the smooth, fair skin of her rump as she lies in bed, her husband snoring obliviously beside her. A notification pings: a follow request from @junaid_malik22, accompanied by a DM. "Couldn't stop thinking about our chat. You sound even, ummm… better than I remembered."
Her pulse quickens, hatred and decorous fury rising—how dare this punk message her? But that hidden desire tempers her response, her fingers trembling as she accepts and replies curtly: "What do you want? Delete this and leave me alone." "Just to catch up. Miss seeing you around. Bet you're still turning heads... or more." His messages turn bolder, laced with innuendo: descriptions of old memories twisted erotically, like "Remember that red salwar you wore? Hugged you so tight, I couldn't focus."
Garima's breath hitches, a forbidden warmth pooling between her legs as she reads, but she fights it with harsh opposition: "You're disgusting, Junaid. Stop this nonsense. I’m a married woman." Yet she doesn't block him, her responses growing heated, laced with denials that accidentally hint at her marital dissatisfaction without admitting her secret yearnings. “Can I ask something if you don’t mind? Do you know what a real man feels like?” The chat escalates into lewd territory, Junaid being bold knowing well Garima won’t say a word to anyone. While Garima, her body tense with unacknowledged arousal, types back in a haze of shame and resistance, stopping just short of full reciprocation before logging off abruptly, her skin flushed but her hands firmly at her sides, refusing to give in to self-touch.
The very next night, as the clock edges past midnight, her phone lights up once more with a new DM from Junaid - “Hey… I know you said to stop, but I keep thinking about how you used to laugh at Varun’s stupid jokes back in the day.” The message is softer, almost nostalgic, laced with just enough warmth to make her pause. Garima stares at the screen, thumb hovering, the simple recollection of innocent childhood moments clashing with the undercurrent of everything that’s come since. She types a curt “Goodnight, Junaid” and hits send, but doesn’t block him, doesn’t delete the thread. Lying back in the darkness, the soft rhythm of her husband’s breathing filling the room, she feels the familiar ache settle deeper - not frantic, not desperate, but persistent, like a low flame she can neither feed nor extinguish. She tells herself it’s nothing, that she’ll end this tomorrow, that a proper woman would never let such thoughts linger. Yet somewhere beneath the layers of decorum and duty, a small, treacherous part of her wonders what might happen if she let one more message slip through… if she answered just a little longer… if the careful distance she’s always maintained began, slowly, to close. The days ahead hold no promises of safety - only the quiet, dangerous promise of something hedonistic waiting just beyond the edge of what she’s allowed herself to want.
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Open for discussion in private.