I live in a small compound in the village… my house and my neighbor’s are separated only by a thin wall and a single window. At 28, I was married but starved for attention. Every afternoon, after I finished chores, I would bathe—filling a bucket with cold water, untying my saree, and letting the wet cloth cling to my curves.
At first, I didn’t notice. But the dripping… the cold splash… I could almost feel him behind that cracked window. Even how I rinsed my hair, the way the wet saree wrapped around my chhot… it was deliberate.
Then one day, I heard him breathing. Not just the wind, but someone… watching. I looked up and saw him. Face pressed to the glass, eyes wide, heart pounding. I smiled—and didn’t look away.
The next day, I drew the water again. Unsorted, by the bucket. This time, I let the saree fall low, letting my waist and the curve above my ass peek. He gasped.
I rinsed my breasts slowly. I felt the eyes. I knew he could see my nipples hard against the drenched cloth. My cheeks burned. I turned my head like I didn’t know he was there, but I was teasing him. I wanted to be seen. Then I called softly:
“Bhai…”He jumped. I heard him step back. I nearly choked on the water.
I winked at the window. I even mouthed, “Come.”
He didn’t respond. But he came in the evening, empty bucket in hand. I had finished. I was standing wrapped only in a wet saree. He didn’t speak. He stepped in.
“You… watched?”
“Always,” I whispered, pressing against him. “But today… you’ll join.”
He hesitated. But I pulled him to sit beside me. The rag was still damp around my thighs. He leaned in and began to close the distance. His fingers teased the wet cloth between my legs. I moaned softly. He looked around—worried someone might see.
I lifted one foot onto his lap. He crouched, his fingers parting the wet fabric. My choot was shining, slick with water and arousal.
He opened his mouth. I shivered. For the first time in months, I tasted him. Cold at first, then hot as desire took over. He sucked, strong and shaky. I pushed him forward. I could feel his pulse through my saree.
He stopped. I felt his breathing through my ribs. My body trembled. Then he slid behind me.
“Fuck me,” I begged. And he did.
Against the wall of the spare room that shared the window, he pumped into me slowly, urgently, wetness squelching beneath us. The wet saree slid up as my hips arched. I wanted more—harder, deeper.
He heard it in my breath. I heard his grunt. Our bodies moved together until I came so hard, I bit the fabric to keep quiet. He came inside me.
We collapsed. I tasted him still in my mouth. My saree was soaked, spilled over the spare room floor.
He kissed my cheek and whispered:
“Next time… under moonlight.”I smiled. My heart still pounding.
“Because every bath… needs an encore.”
