Asha - Itchy Neighbour Pussy

[Haran000]

Asha

Vishwakumar, son of Ravishankar and Rajeshwari, lived in the second house on the lane opposite the Sitaramanjaneya Temple in Eklaspur Village, Manthani, Peddapalli District, Telangana, India.

It was December 20, 2012. Phones buzzed with rumors: the world was ending on the 21st. Vishwakumar scoffed. "Just because it's in the Mayan calendar? We still have so much more evil to commit, more pollution to spread, more hell for our future generations to breathe. Living beings should curse humanity first, then the apocalypse. Only humans should be wiped out." ( "Except me and Kajal Nisha, of course!")

We have grocery store, a silent witness to generations, once saw my father hunched over a sewing machine, creating garments, while my mother, ever-present, meticulously attached buttons to shirts. After college, I, too, found my place within its familiar walls. When Mom was caught up in the rhythm of household chores, I’d often take her spot at the counter.

I was twenty-one then, fresh out of college, and a modern desire had taken root: a phone. My father, indulging my request, bought me a Samsung S Duos. Mornings, when the neighborhood kids were off to college, I’d be there, engrossed in Candy Crush, the glowing screen a beacon of my youthful idleness.

One Tuesday, a day when many sought solace at the temple, a familiar figure appeared on our street. It was Mounika. My heart, an untamed drum, quickened at the sight of her. She was undeniably lovely, and a recent discovery — that our families were distantly related — only fueled my quiet obsession. From then on, the grocery store transformed into a vantage point, a hopeful stage for her fleeting appearances.

A silent ritual began. Our eyes would meet, a quick exchange of glances, hers shy, followed by a faint, self-conscious smile. One day, a mischievous impulse seized me. I deliberately lifted my phone, placing it conspicuously on a box of alphenlibe candies. What else was there to do? In those days, a 20-year-old with an Android 3G phone was quite the novelty, a small badge of modern rebellion.

Mounika, her gaze falling upon me, offered a delicate smile, then glanced at the phone, her eyebrows rising in a subtle arch of surprise before she gracefully walked past the shop. As her jasmine-braided hair swayed, a dark cascade below her slender waist, my heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic prisoner.

I harbored a dramatic, secret thought: if the apocalypse were truly upon us, I’d at least manage one kiss from Mounika before the end. Perhaps, I mused, if the world crumbled, I’d finally summon the courage to speak to her, to steal that longed-for kiss.

Mounika remained an enigma of silence. After college, I’d often find myself trailing her, following her to her own college, just to catch a glimpse. She would see me, acknowledge my presence with a glance, but never utter a single word. She never even questioned my persistent shadow.

Another year slipped by, marked by this silent pursuit. Then, a new ambition ignited within me, driven by Mounika. I wanted a job. I wanted to marry her, and a mere house, a family business, wasn't enough; I needed a steady income. I had my education, and two years later, I secured a job in another town, a fresh chapter awaiting.

For three years, the grocery store was without me, and Mounika was absent from our town. I later learned she was living with her aunt in Ramagundam. Our paths finally converged again at a relative’s wedding. She was breathtaking in a pink saree, and the world around me faded into a blur. My entire being was fixated on her, every step she took, every turn of her head. I circled the entire function hall, a silent satellite in her orbit. Still, she remained silent, and a profound fear gripped me: what if I spoke to her, and the spell broke? After dinner, Mounika and her family departed.

The wedding faded into the background the moment Mounika departed. With nothing left to do, I retrieved the house keys from Dad, mounted my Hero Honda Splendor Plus, and set off for home. That’s when I saw her. Mounika, walking slowly, accompanied by her mother, aunt, and elder sister.

I didn’t dare meet her gaze with her family present. I feigned indifference, riding past them. Then, a voice called from behind, "Viswa, Viswa!"

It wasn’t Mounika. It was her mother.

I stopped the bike and looked back as she approached. "How do you know my name?" I asked, surprised.

"You're Rajeshwari's son, aren't you? Your mom just told me," she said, a smile gracing her lips.

I returned her smile. "Yes, Auntie, tell me."

"I'm not your auntie."

My heart lurched. Same caste, distant relatives, and not an auntie? My mind raced, "Oh God, oh God."

"I'm your elder sister (Akka). My grandmother's sister's daughter is your mother," she clarified, and a wave of relief washed over me.

These family relations were always a headache. So, Mounika was like my daughter in law —a younger female relative, essentially in the generation below. Phew, no worries there.

"Could you drop me off at home, please? Don't mind."

"Oh, no problem, Akka, please get on."

I drove her home, and as I turned back, Mounika was walking towards me. I met her eyes, a faint smile playing on my lips. "Viswa, stop," she said.

The bike swerved. I slammed on the brakes, stopping abruptly right in front of her. Her aunt was nowhere in sight.

"Hmm?" I nodded, prompting her.

She stood silently, fidgeting shyly with the edge of her saree.

"Tell me, what is it?" I pressed.

"Well..." She let out a small sigh.

A sudden surge of courage propelled me. I disregarded any onlookers. She had called my name for the first time, and I wasn't about to squander the opportunity. I dismounted the bike, kicked down the stand, and stood before her.

"Tell me, why did you stop me?" I asked.

"Why did you go past me without looking earlier?" she retorted, a cute pout on her face.
She was adorable. I wanted to laugh. Women, I mused, a problem if you look at them, another if you don't.

"Your mom and they were there, that's why," I explained.

"Why do you look at me like that...?" she asked, her gaze falling to the ground.

"I feel like looking at you all the time."

"Do you like me?"

"Not just like, something else."

"Something else, what?"

She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Struggling for words, I finally said, "I can't tell you now, but when will you talk to me again?"

"Whenever we meet," she replied, tying the end of her saree around her index finger. Her shyness was palpable, perhaps due to our conversation on the road.

"So, when will we meet again?" I pushed.

"I don't know."

Her voice held a hint of sadness.

"Hmm..." I took a deep breath, my gaze fixed on her.

"I heard you got a job?" Mounika asked.

"Yes."

"Congrats."

I took a step closer. She instinctively took a step back. I didn't understand why.

Glancing towards her house, she whispered, "Don't come close, someone from my family might see us."

My mind blank, "Can I come if no one sees?" slipped out.

Without a reply, she turned her face away, blushed, and walked home, a private smile on her lips.

Three days later, I was on the bus, returning home from work in the evening. At the crossroads bus stop, she boarded, holding a small shopping bag. She wore a yellow Punjabi dress, a red hibiscus flower tucked into her hair, and her dupatta dbangd loosely over her chest.

The seat next to me was empty. Seeing her, I seized the chance and shifted over. The seat in front of me was also vacant, yet she walked directly to me and sat down, her right shoulder pressing against mine. I turned my head, and she flashed a mischievous smile.
For five minutes, we said nothing. She looked at me, I looked at her, then we both stared straight ahead. Our eyes met again.

"Where are you coming from?" I finally asked.

"I came from a clothes shop."

"Oh, what did you buy?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Stupid..."

She turned her face away, a touch of annoyance in her expression. I felt like laughing, imagining the depth of her shyness.

I leaned closer to her ear and whispered, "You can tell me, it's okay."

She was instantly startled, glaring at me. Then, she covered her face and giggled.
Taking that as an invitation, I moved even closer. She remained silent, lost in her thoughts.
I completely forgot we were on a bus. I lightly kissed her just below her ear. She froze, her fists clenching tightly around the bar of the seat in front.

An old man next to us saw it and smiled. He wasn’t from our village, so I dismissed him with a mental, "Who cares what he thinks."

"Viswa, move," Mounika whispered.

I complied. We remained silent until we reached our village. We disembarked at the bus stop, and I walked behind Mounika. It was past six, the sun dipping below the clouds. As we walked, the streetlights flickered on.

Watching her walk ahead in her yellow Punjabi dress, I was overcome with romantic thoughts.

She stopped and turned around.

"Are you coming home?" she asked.

"I will if you ask me to."

"Coward, where did you get this much courage?"

"Hey, what do you mean coward?"

"Well, you never spoke to me for so long until I spoke, isn't that cowardly?"

"That's different, how would I know you also liked me?"

"Okay, go, don't follow me like this."

"I'll come till your house."

"If my dad sees, that's it."

We continued talking, turning a corner into an alley. For some reason, it felt deserted. I seized her hand and pulled her back.

"Let go, I need to go home.”

"I need to talk to you."

"You were silent all that time on the bus, and now you want to talk? Go home."

Still holding her hand, I led her into a temple. She offered no resistance, simply followed. We went behind the temple, seeking a private spot away from the main gate.

I pressed her against a pillar in the mandap, holding the pillar with my hands, effectively trapping her.

She trembled, a shy blush spreading across her cheeks. I leaned down, looking into her eyes.

"Let me go," she whispered.

"I'll let you go if you tell me what you need to say."

"What do I need to say?"

"Don't you know?"

"I need to go, move Viswa."

"What have you studied, what do you like, what do you want to do – when will you tell me all this?"

"When we meet again.”

"When will we meet again?"

"I don't know."

I couldn't help myself. I tilted my head and kissed her left cheek.

She pushed against my chest with her hands.

"Viswa, all this is wrong before marriage," she said.

Oh, she went straight to marriage. I laughed.

"Haha... Whose marriage?"

She lowered her face.

"You said you like me?"

"Yes."

"Then?"

"Do people get married just because they like each other?"

I kissed her neck. She responded by holding onto my shoulders.

A wave of intoxication washed over me, an endless pleasure. The first touch of a woman, kissing her—it all felt new and thrilling.

"Ooh....." she murmured.

I kissed her again. She squirmed.

"Mmmm.... No," she protested weakly.

I held her face, dreamily rubbing my cheeks against hers, gazing at her.

"You're very handsome, that's why I feel like looking at you. I used to come that way just for you. It would be nice if you came behind me like that. But you're a coward who doesn't stop and talk."

I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her closer. I buried my face in her neck, continuing to kiss her.

"Ahhh...." she sighed.

"I know," I murmured, "but I was afraid of how you would react, and I didn't know if I could handle it if you said no."

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, pulling me deeper into her embrace. Her breasts, soft and comfortable like cotton pads, pressed against my arms.

As I kissed the curve of her neck and nudged her nose, she whispered, "Ahh... Enough, I need to go."

"Uh-huh... Hmm..." I mumbled.

"Do all this if you have the courage to come to my house and tell my family."
I let go.

"No?" she asked.

"If I do that, and your family doesn't accept me and there's a problem, then I might not be able to see you at all. What if you get married to someone else?”

She hugged me again. I resumed kissing her.

"Why wouldn't my family accept you?" she wondered.

"You are very well-off. Your father would want to marry you off to someone with a big job, not a small job like mine."

She held the back of my head and gently placed my face against her neck. I pulled her dupatta aside, tossed it, and inhaled her scent, feeling increasingly unhinged as I kissed her.

"Isss.... Viswa, let's get married, then we can talk about everything."

"No, now... Umm."

I raked my teeth along her cleavage.

"Aaahh..." she gasped.

She released me and moved away. We exchanged smiles.

"I have to go, bye..." she said.

"Wait."

Running, Mounika called back, "We have a match-making meeting tomorrow, stupid..."
She ran off, laughing, leaving me in shock.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was lost in my silent chase, my family had been busy. They were looking for a bride for me, and their inquiries had led them, remarkably, to Mounika. The elders, with their quiet discussions, decided on a day for the prospective bride and groom to meet.

Finally, in 2016, we were married. Before the wedding, I had performed a series of rituals and managed to secure a transfer to town Manthani. My in-laws, in a generous gesture, also bought us a house there.