The rain came down in sheets, a relentless monsoon torrent that turned the streets of the sleepy town into rivers and cloaked the night in a primal rhythm. The old haveli stood defiant against the storm, its high ceilings and carved wooden beams echoing with the patter of water on the roof. Inside, the air was thick with humidity and something else—something electric, unspoken, teetering on the edge of forbidden. Rohan, the eldest son, had left for Delhi that morning, his business trip stretching into days. The house felt too big, too quiet, with only Anjali and Vikram left to fill its spaces.
Anjali, the woman who’d married into the family two years ago, was a vision that haunted Vikram’s dreams. Her almond eyes, sharp enough to cut through lies, softened only when she laughed—a sound that stirred him in ways he tried to ignore. Her sarees, always vibrant, clung to her curves in a way that made his throat dry: the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the hint of her navel peeking through when she moved just right. She was his bhabhi, his brother’s wife, but the truth was rawer than that. Vikram wanted her. And tonight, with the rain sealing them in, he wasn’t sure he could keep pretending otherwise.
Anjali stood by the veranda doors, the glass fogging under her breath as she watched the storm rage. Her emerald saree shimmered in the dim glow of a single lamp, the fabric damp from a brief dash through the courtyard earlier. It hugged her tighter now, outlining every inch of her—her gaand round and inviting, her blouse straining against the fullness of her chest. She sensed Vikram before she saw him, his presence a heat at her back. “Barsaat ne sab kuch bheega diya,” she murmured, her voice low, teasing, not turning around. “You’re up late, Vikram.”
He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him, though he didn’t touch her. Not yet. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said, his voice rough, like gravel. “Not with this storm. Not with… you here.” The words hung heavy, a confession he couldn’t take back. Her breath hitched, and she turned, her eyes locking on his. They were dark, burning, stripping away every excuse they’d both clung to.
“Careful,” she warned, but her lips curved, a challenge in her smirk. “You don’t know what you’re starting.” Her words were a spark, and Vikram was tinder. He closed the distance, his hand brushing her arm, fingers lingering where the saree met her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, her gaze flicking to his mouth, and that was it—the moment they both broke.
Their kiss was a storm of its own, fierce and hungry, lips crashing together with a need that had simmered too long. Her tongue met his, bold and teasing, a chudai of mouths that left them breathless. She tasted like rain and spice, and Vikram groaned, the sound swallowed by her moan as she pressed herself closer. Her hands were greedy, yanking at his kurta, nails scraping his chest as she tore it open. His skin was taut, muscles flexing under her touch, and she reveled in it, her fingers tracing the hard lines down to where his land strained against his pants, thick and undeniable.
“Fuck, Anjali,” he growled, voice raw as he gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him. Her choot pressed against his thigh through the saree, the heat of her seeping into him, and she gasped, arching into the friction. His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing that sensitive spot below her ear, and she shivered, her hands clutching his shoulders. “You want this,” he murmured, half-question, half-certainty, his lips brushing her skin. “Say it.”
She laughed, sultry and wicked, her fingers sliding down to palm his dick through the fabric, making him hiss. “You think I don’t?” she shot back, her voice dripping with want. “Chod na, Vikram. Stop talking.” The words were a dare, and he didn’t hesitate. His hands moved fast, tugging the saree loose, the silk unraveling like a promise. It fell in a heap, leaving her in a blouse and petticoat, her curves bare to his gaze. Her gaand was perfection, round and full, and when he slid his hands over it, squeezing, she moaned, loud and unashamed.
They stumbled toward the couch, too impatient for the bedroom, the rain’s rhythm urging them on. Anjali pushed him down, straddling his lap, her petticoat riding up to reveal smooth thighs. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her chest, tearing at the blouse until it gave way, her breasts spilling free. They were heavy, perfect, and he groaned, mouth closing over one, tongue flicking as she arched, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Harder,” she demanded, and he obeyed, sucking, biting just enough to make her cry out, her choot grinding against his land, the friction maddening.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he panted, hands gripping her gaand, guiding her movements. She smirked, reaching down to undo his pants, her fingers wrapping around his dick, hot and pulsing in her hand. He cursed, head falling back as she stroked him, slow and deliberate, her thumb teasing the tip until he was trembling. “Anjali, now,” he growled, and she laughed again, the sound pure seduction.
She slid her petticoat up, panties already gone, her choot slick and ready as she positioned herself over him. The first thrust was slow, torturous, his land filling her inch by inch until they both groaned, the sensation overwhelming. “Chudai kar, Vikram,” she whispered, her voice a command, and he didn’t hold back. His hips snapped up, hard and deep, and she matched him, riding him with a rhythm that was all instinct. The couch creaked, the rain roared, but nothing drowned out her moans, his grunts, the wet sound of their bodies colliding.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks he’d wear like badges. His hands roamed her gaand, squeezing, spanking lightly, and she gasped, the sting pushing her closer to the edge. “Faster,” she begged, and he gave it to her, thrusting with a force that shook them both. Her breasts bounced with every move, and he couldn’t resist, mouth latching onto one again, sucking as she shattered, her choot clenching around him, her cry echoing through the haveli.
He wasn’t far behind, the heat of her pulling him under. “Anjali,” he groaned, one last thrust sending him over, his release spilling into her as they clung to each other, breathless, trembling. The rain kept falling, but inside, the storm had broken, leaving only the afterglow, their bodies tangled, hearts pounding.
They didn’t speak for a while, just lay there, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her back. The saree was a crumpled heap on the floor, the lamp flickering low. “This… complicates things,” she murmured finally, a hint of a smile in her voice.
Vikram chuckled, kissing her forehead. “Worth it,” he said, and she didn’t disagree. The rain slowed to a drizzle, but the night was far from over.