Night after night, Avani locked her door—a ritual that never failed to invite Niharika bhabhi's playful jibes. "Padayi ka bahana bana ke, poora din phone pe laga rehti hai," bhabhi would tease, her laughter warm but knowing. Avani would only smile, deflecting with a light-hearted shrug.
The scattered textbooks on her desk lay neglected beneath the glow of her phone's screen. It was supposed to be a brief respite—just five minutes of scrolling between chapters of chemistry—but the minutes stretched and slipped away. Her fingers, restless and seeking, betrayed her study plans, slipping beneath the folds of her kurta as she pressed the pillow tightly to her lips, breath hitching as she watched again and again.
Each night, the scenes were the same: men with thick beards, chests dusted with hair, broad hands that spoke of strength and experience. Older men, the kind grounded in a different era, commanding and unapologetic. Not the inexperienced boys in her classes, who fumbled through their youth, lacking the confidence she craved.
In these videos, the men held their partners firmly, elicited raw moans, and carried a possessiveness that made Avani ache with longing. This was the fire she sought—the deep, relentless pleasure that had eluded her for years.
Her previous relationship had left a bitter aftertaste—two long years consumed by jealousy, immaturity, and fleeting moments of passion that never filled the void. Her ex's quickness, his inability to satisfy, had shattered her illusions. She no longer wanted boys; she wanted men.
Outside, the stillness of Jaipur deepened, the city wrapped in a cloak of silence. From her brother Ninad's room, the soft cries of a baby mingled with Niharika's soothing lullaby. Avani closed her ears to the soothing sounds, lowered the volume on her phone, and tapped the next video from her carefully curated collection.
This one was rougher—an older man in his thirties with a young woman barely out of college. She watched, captivated, as his hairy forearms pinned her wrists, his weight pressing her down, her cries raw and unabashed as he moved inside her. Avani's breath hitched; her legs curled instinctively, palm circling faster beneath her dupatta as a quiet gasp escaped her lips.
Each night, her fantasies returned to the same theme—experienced, unapologetic men who demanded and took without shame. And recently, that imagined face had slipped from the shadows of her dreams into the light of reality.
Varun.
He was a constant in their lives—Ninad's closest friend and confidant, a man with broad shoulders, rolled-up kurta sleeves revealing thick, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. She had known him since her teenage years, but only now had her perspective shifted, her thoughts clouded with forbidden desire.
Married, older, a figure firmly off-limits, yet the ache he sparked inside her was undeniable. In darkness, her hand would wander lower, lips parting as she whispered his name to the empty room.
The following evening, the unmistakable rumble of Varun's motorcycle echoed outside the gate. Avani's heart quickened, the sound etched deeply into her senses.
From the living room, Ninad's robust voice called out, "Arre, aa gaya tu! Chal, andar aa."
Avani adjusted her dupatta with trembling fingers before stepping into the hallway, telling herself it was habit, though her pulse betrayed her.
Varun stood inside, casually dropping his keys on the table. Faded jeans met a short kurta with sleeves rolled up, a day's stubble casting shadows on his strong jaw. His laughter, warm and familiar, made Avani's stomach twist.
Niharika appeared, carrying glasses with a soft smile. "Varun bhaiya, thoda intezaar kijiye, chai laati hoon."
Varun accepted a glass, his smile easy. "Bina chai ke toh tum log mujhe ghar se nikalte hi nahi," he joked, eliciting laughter from Ninad.
Avani lingered near the doorway, feigning attention to her phone. Varun's gaze flicked toward her briefly, accompanied by a subtle nod. "Padayi kaise chal rahi hai, Avani?" he asked, voice low and casual.
Her throat tightened. She forced a smile. "Theek hai... final year hai na, assignments ka bojh hai."
He settled back on the sofa. "Degree le lo jaldi, phir Ninad ke business mein haath batao."
Ninad chuckled. "Isko padhai hi pasand hai, kaam mein koi dilchaspi nahi."
Varun hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of chai. Avani's eyes caught the rise and fall of his Adam's apple, her gaze lingering longer than she dared.
Niharika glanced in her direction. "Avani, chai laane mein madad kar de."
"Ha... abhi aati hoon," Avani replied quickly, slipping into the kitchen, heart pounding.
Leaning against the cool counter, she struggled to steady her breath. A few simple sentences from Varun had ignited a fire she could neither quell nor deny. The shameless hunger her body held for him was both terrifying and intoxicating.
Carrying the tray laden with pakoras, she brushed her fingers lightly against his as she handed over the plate. The briefest contact sent an electric pulse through her skin, a spark she could still feel long after withdrawing her hand.
Varun said nothing, engrossed in conversation with Ninad, but Avani's heart thundered in her chest. That fleeting touch lingered like a secret between them.
Later, amidst the chatter and laughter, Avani stole glances at Varun. His relaxed posture—legs apart, one arm draped over the back of the sofa—left a trail of heat in her veins. The hint of chest hair peeking from his half-unbuttoned kurta was exactly the sort of magnetism her fantasies worshipped.
In her mind, she knelt before him, tasting the subtle salt of his skin, surrendering to the man she had longed for in silence.
When the evening waned and the household settled into quiet, Avani retreated to her room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her heart refused to slow, replaying every moment—the brush of fingers, the curve of his throat, the effortless weight of his body.
She shed her dupatta, slipping into a loose nightshirt, sitting cross-legged on her bed as the ceiling fan stirred the warm air. Her skin still burned with the remnants of desire.
Her hand hesitated over the glowing screen of her phone before she locked it away. Tonight, she didn't need the staged fantasies; she had her own vivid imagery.
Lying back against the headboard, her palm traced slow, deliberate circles lower, stoking the heat that pulsed within. Varun's face emerged in her mind—so clear, so tantalizing.
She pictured the kitchen, the moment she offered him the plate, their fingers entwining in a silent promise. His thumb brushed her knuckles with a deliberate slowness, a gesture charged with unspoken intent, all under the oblivious watch of Ninad.
In her mind’s eye, he leaned in, his trimmed beard grazing her cheek, his voice a husky command whispered in her ear, "Chup. Bas chup."
Her hips lifted instinctively, her fingers moving faster, knees parting wider as the bed groaned beneath her. Soft gasps muffled by the pillow spilled from her lips.
The details sharpened—his hairy forearms constraining her wrists, the rough texture of his kurta scraping her skin, the confident claim in his posture as if he owned the space without effort.
Her body quivered, the fan's hum and distant baby cries fading into nothing but the searing heat between her thighs.
A sudden climax coursed through her, sharp and fierce, thighs clamping tight as a broken moan escaped: "Varun... ahhhh."
She stayed wrapped in the aftershocks, chest rising and falling erratically, fingers sticky with desire. When the tide receded, she pulled the sheet over herself, gaze fixed on the ceiling, heart still racing.
Tonight, she hadn’t needed the artificial images of porn. Tonight, Varun alone filled her mind, a vivid and forbidden presence.
Her breath remained uneven as she shifted on the bed, hair damp and plastered to her forehead. A sly smile curved her lips. The room smelled faintly of her own heat and salt.
She wiped her fingers quickly, tugged the sheet higher, and let the velvet darkness wrap around her.
Sleep, however, was elusive.
Each time she closed her eyes, the evening’s vivid replay haunted her—the stretch of his jeans, the peek of chest hair, the glint of his wedding band as he lifted a glass. The ring, a symbol of his unavailability, only fueled her desperate yearning.
She bit her lip, pressing her thighs together, the ache still alive and demanding. Her fingers had brought release, but the thought of Varun’s touch promised an intensity beyond her experience.
Her mind drifted to forbidden scenarios—him catching her in the kitchen, door ajar, his body trapping hers against the counter, his hand exploring where only she dared to dream. His voice a low, unyielding command she would obey without hesitation.
Turning onto her stomach, pillow nestled beneath her hips, face buried deep into another to muffle sounds, she rocked gently, soft whimpers threading her breath.
She imagined Varun entering her room like this—finding her half-asleep, half-dressed—his rough hands pulling down her salwar, no words spoken, only the heat of his body and the whisper of his breath against her neck.
A tremor of fear flickered through her—a mix of shame and exhilaration at how uncontrollable this craving had become. Yet, instead of retreating, she surrendered more deeply each night, exploring darker, more daring fantasies.
When the tension finally ebbed, she rolled onto her back, sweat-damp hair clinging to her skin. A mischievous grin played on her lips. The room lingered with the scent of her desire, an intimate reminder of the night’s secret rebellion.
Her last thought before slipping into restless sleep was raw and simple:
What if, one day, it wasn't just my hand? What if, one day, it was him?
And with that, Avani sank into dreams haunted by the man she both feared and craved, a restless yearning that refused to be silenced.