Niharika's Forbidden Never Ending Hunger(Scene 9 - 10 Videos - 1 Image)

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Scene 9

That night, I did not close eyes even for one second.

Air conditioner humming quiet in master bedroom. I lay fully still on my side of costly spring mattress. Clean white sheets changed, but my sensitive heart still felt heavy, dirty weight of what happened few hours ago.

Niharika sleeping right next to me. She breathing so soft, looking so peaceful and beautiful in dim moonlight. I am very emotional man, and eyes filled with hot tears again. I kept looking at soft face, thinking all mistakes I made in marriage. I always treated her like delicate flower. I bought her costly sarees and gold jewellery. I knew she had big hunger inside—I saw in frustrated way she looked at me sometimes—but I never knew she would dare fully cross boundary of our culture right in front of my eyes. She used my soft, gentle love as weapon against me.

Next morning, sun came up like any day. Things fully usual. Niharika woke at six, took pure bath, and did morning puja. I got small daughter Mrunal ready for college bus. Niharika packed Mrunal’s tiffin with so much mother love.

But between wife and me, heavy, choking silence. We not talking. When I sat at dining table for morning tea, Niharika served without word. We only exchanged few dark, heavy looks. Her big, dark eyes perfectly calm, but I saw hidden, dangerous satisfaction still there. Every time she looked at me, stomach tied in knots of emotional pain and deep, painful lust. I sat in own house, quietly counting days until her heavy, roaring desire break barrier again. Because with woman built like her, hunger always comes back.

Next four days went very smooth. Storm seemed passed. We slowly started talking here and there—about electricity bill, about Mrunal’s homework, about my software projects. She acting like perfect, traditional Indian wife again.

But on fifth day, Saturday morning, fragile peace of universe shattered.

It was around eleven morning. I sitting at dining table with laptop, writing code. Mrunal in bedroom, watching cartoons on tablet. Niharika in kitchen, making heavy, deep-fried pooris for weekend lunch.

Because she cooking over hot stove, she wearing very old, faded yellow cotton salwar kameez. It cheap suit she only wear for heavy house work. Kitchen hot, so she fully discarded dupatta. Thin yellow cotton of kameez sticking to skin with sweat. Heavy weight of her 38DD breasts clearly visible, soft fabric fully straining against full, heavy curves every time she moved arms to fry food. Her slim waist and wide, soft hips swayed heavy as she worked.

Then, doorbell rang. Loud and sharp.

"I will get it, Vedant," Niharika called from kitchen.

She walked past me to open heavy wooden front door. I looked up from laptop.

Standing in doorway was Baban.

Baban local man who deliver heavy 14kg cooking gas cylinders to colony on rusted iron bicycle. He not tall, handsome man. He very short, but very wide and thick, built like solid block of dark stone from years lifting brutal weight. He had thick, muscular neck and broad, hairy shoulders. He wearing filthy, torn white banyan soaked in dark sweat, and faded blue lungi tied high above thick, dark knees. He smelled strong of rust, cheap chewing tobacco, and raw, unwashed street labour.

This was new thing. Pure, rich house needing raw, brute strength of lowest class to keep kitchen running.

"Gas cylinder, madam," Baban grunted. His voice very thick and harsh. He not even look at face. He just bent down, massive, thick arms grabbing heavy iron cylinder. With loud grunt of raw animal effort, he lifted 14kg rusted iron tank easy on bare, sweaty shoulder.

Niharika stepped back to let him in.

"Bring it into kitchen, Baban," Niharika said. Her voice normal at first, but as short, heavy muscled man walked past her, carrying massive weight like toy, I saw wife’s whole body freeze.

Heavy, dark pull instantly returned to room.

Baban walked heavy-footed into clean kitchen, dirty rubber slippers slapping floor tiles. Niharika followed inside. I slowly closed laptop, heart starting to pound with familiar, scary mix of emotional panic and extreme physical heat.

I turned in chair to look into open kitchen.

Baban lowered heavy iron cylinder on floor with loud, metallic CLANG that echoed through peaceful flat. He stood up, wiping sweaty, dark forehead with dirty, calloused hand. His thick chest heaving under torn, wet banyan.

Niharika standing just three feet away. She holding steel glass of water she just poured. But she not looking at glass. Her dark eyes fully glued to thick, raw, sweaty muscles of Baban’s bare shoulders and deep tanned, hairy chest.

Her heavy 38DD breasts began rise and fall much faster under thin, sweat-wet yellow cotton. Pooris burning in hot oil on stove, but traditional wife did not notice.

Baban looked up. His dark, strong eyes locked direct on Niharika’s heavy, bouncing chest, fully exposed without dupatta. He took slow, deep breath, smelling hot oil and her sweet, sweating skin.

"Iron is very heavy today, madam," Baban said. His voice dropped to low, rough rumble. He did not look away from her deep, shadowy curves. "It makes poor man's body burn with heat."

Niharika’s soft pink lips parted. Quiet, perfect wife from last four days instantly gone, fully eaten by roaring, bad lust for this dirty, thick street labourer right in front of husband.