15-03-2025, 02:40 AM
Soon after I moved in with my then-girlfriend (now wife) Kavita, we slipped into our daily rhythm in our cozy Mumbai flat. I’d leave for work about an hour before her, and she’d always see me off at the door with a tight hug and a lingering kiss. What she wore during these farewells depended on how far she’d gotten with her morning routine—sometimes a saree half-dbangd, sometimes just her blouse and petticoat, her curves teasingly outlined.
One sultry morning, she sauntered to the door in nothing but a lacy red bra and matching panties, her skin glowing under the soft light filtering through the curtains. As always, she pressed a warm, teasing kiss on my cheek, her jasmine-scented hair brushing my face. As I stepped out, she leaned against the doorframe, her voice husky, “Arjun, can you spot the postman on the street? I’m expecting a registered parcel today.”
I shut the door behind me and strolled down the lane, spotting the postman just five houses away, his khaki uniform unmistakable. He’d be at our door in minutes. I chuckled, picturing Kavita scrambling for her dupatta or saree, her bare midriff flashing as she rushed. Then a naughtier thought struck—what if she mistook his knock for me returning and flung the door open in that scandalous lingerie? My pulse quickened, a strange cocktail of jealousy and desire simmering within me. The idea of him feasting his eyes on her barely-clad body sent a jolt through me, arousal creeping in where I least expected it.
All day at the office, my mind replayed the scene—her standing there, the postman’s gaze tracing her voluptuous figure. I wanted to call her, to ask, but resisted. It wasn’t until dinner, over steaming plates of biryani, that I casually probed, “Did your parcel arrive alright?”
She smiled, twirling a strand of hair. “Oh yes, just after you left. Didn’t you see him down the road?”
“Hope you had time to cover up,” I said, keeping my tone light, though my heart raced.
“Actually, no,” she giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “The doorbell rang, and I thought it was you forgetting your keys again. I just swung the door open. You should’ve seen his face—poor man didn’t know where to look! I think I turned redder than a ripe tomato.”
“What happened next?” I asked, feigning nonchalance, though my imagination was running wild.
“I froze for a second, then stammered an apology, saying I thought it was you. Signed for the parcel while he tried not to stare at my legs—or higher. His eyes kept darting, like he couldn’t help himself.”
“Probably the highlight of his day,” I teased, laughing to mask the heat rising in me.
That night, our lovemaking was electric. Kavita was insatiable, her nails digging into my back as we moved together, and I couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, nearly naked, for a stranger’s eyes. It drove me wild.
Days passed, our routine unchanged—Kavita waving me off each morning, her saree slipping low on her hips or her blouse clinging to her skin. One chaotic morning, as I hunted for my keys, she appeared in the hallway in a sheer black bra and panties, the lace barely containing her. My hand was on the latch when she covered it with hers, stopping me. Her lips crashed into mine, hot and demanding, her tongue teasing me in a way that made me want to drag her back to bed right then.
After a playful tussle, I pried the door open and stepped out, leaving her framed in the doorway. As I reached the gate, I tossed over my shoulder, “Expecting another delivery, jaan?” She laughed, blowing me a kiss, her hips swaying as she shut the door.
Walking through the chaotic Mumbai traffic—honking rickshaws and idling cars—I realized anyone passing by could’ve glimpsed her. The thought of drivers stealing glances at her bare skin sent a thrill through me. I was starting to crave it—wanting others to see my stunning Kavita in all her glory.
That night, tangled in the sheets, I whispered how her morning tease had left me burning for her all day. In the heat of passion, I spun a fantasy of her being caught again, exposed for others. Gasping, she confessed that the postman incident had ignited something in her. Pressing her, I learned she’d loved his hungry gaze raking over her—and after he left, she’d locked the door, slid her hand between her thighs, and brought herself to a shuddering climax. Her words pushed us both over the edge, our cries mingling as we came together.
Over the next few days, my mind buzzed with fantasies of her being seen. I decided to nudge things further when the chance came. It didn’t take long. One morning, as I was about to leave, she called from upstairs, “Arjun, wait!” She descended in a skin-toned bra and panty set, the fabric so sheer it was practically invisible. My throat tightened as she pressed herself against me, her lips devouring mine, her breasts soft against my chest. I was rock-hard, dizzy with lust.
Returning her embrace, I slid my hands behind her, unhooked her bra, and let it slip off, her dark nipples hardening in the cool air. She didn’t flinch—her eyes told me she was as thrilled as I was. Still locked together, she twisted the latch, murmuring, “You’ll miss your train, love.” As I pulled away, she let the bra drop to the floor, standing there topless. I yanked her back for one last, deep kiss, silently begging her to indulge my new obsession.
My heart pounded as she nudged me out, her arm coyly covering her breasts. I walked backward, unable to look away. At the gate, she stepped back, dropped her arm, and waved—her full, ripe breasts swaying freely. I stood there, grinning like an idiot, until she shut the door.
That night, we surrendered to our shared kink, confessing how much it turned us on, plotting how to push it further.
Weeks later, Kavita took over the tale: After the postman incident, I was hooked. Arjun came home ravenous on days I waved him off in next to nothing—our nights were a blur of sweat and moans, fueled by fantasies of other men catching me. I wanted to test the waters, but only if Arjun was as eager as I was.
The chance came when we planned a night out to celebrate our first date anniversary. Arjun booked a table at a posh hotel in Bandra, suggesting I wear my black choli and lehenga—a daring outfit with a plunging neckline. I dressed early, admiring myself in the mirror. On a whim, I ditched the bra, my nipples stiffening against the silky fabric, their outline shamelessly visible. I felt like a Bollywood siren.
Arjun’s eyes darkened with lust when I joined him in the living room. I twirled, and he tugged at the choli’s ties, loosening them until my cleavage spilled out. “Maybe we’ll loosen it more later,” he growled, pulling me close.
At the restaurant, I sat facing the wall, shrugging off my shawl so the choli slipped, baring one breast. Arjun’s gaze smoldered as he urged me to stay exposed. A tall, older waiter with a salt-and-pepper beard approached, and I hesitated—cover up or let him see? I chickened out, tugging the fabric just enough to hide my nipple.
He handed us menus, his eyes flickering to my chest as he listed the specials. My nipples betrayed me, hardening under his scrutiny. When I ordered, I met his gaze, then glanced down at my barely-covered breasts, letting him know I was fine with his stares. His sly smile said it all.
Dinner was a tease—Arjun whispering how my flirting with the waiter had him throbbing, the wine loosening my inhibitions. By the bill, I was tipsy and dripping with need. Arjun adjusted my choli, exposing the edge of my areola. The waiter’s eyes locked on it as he took our payment, and I reveled in the heat of his gaze.
In the lounge, I crossed my legs on a sofa, my lehenga riding up to show creamy thighs. The bar steward couldn’t stop staring. Arjun egged me on, and I leaned forward, letting my nipple peek out. The steward’s jaw tightened as he served our drinks, and I squirmed, aching for more.
Later, at a crowded Colaba wine bar, I perched on a high stool, sans panties—Arjun had slipped them off earlier. Two guys in their twenties sidled up, drawn by my disheveled lehenga. I flirted shamelessly, leaning in so they could peek down my choli. Arjun’s hand on my thigh parted my legs, baring me beneath the table. Their compliments—how sexy I looked, how lucky Arjun was—sent shivers through me.
As we neared our taxi time, Arjun untied my choli’s knot, leaving it to my whims. I laughed, letting it slip, one breast fully exposed. Their hungry stares were intoxicating. In the taxi home, Arjun peeled off my shawl, the driver sneaking glances as we kissed and groped, lost in our reckless desire.
As we neared the end of our lane in Bandra, we asked the taxi driver to stop a little short of our building. He’d likely caught glimpses of our heated fumbling in the backseat—my lehenga riding up, Arjun’s hands roaming—and we didn’t want him pulling right up to our door. Clutching the flimsy fabric of my choli and lehenga together with one hand, I stepped out into the humid night air, my skin tingling from the thrill. Arjun handed me a ₹2000 note for the ₹1200 fare, his fingers brushing mine with intent.
As I leaned toward the driver’s window to pay, Arjun grabbed my free hand, tugging gently—a silent dare to let go of the fabric. My breath hitched, a delicious shiver racing through me as I surrendered to his wicked game. The lehenga and choli parted like petals, baring my sweat-slicked curves to the driver’s gaze. His eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face as he fumbled with the change. “Let me count it out for you,” he said, his voice thick, deliberately dragging out the moment as he handed me the notes one by one, his stare drinking in my exposed breasts and the hint of my navel beneath the loosened waistband.
Arjun’s grip tightened on my hand, his arousal palpable as we stood there, the driver’s wink sealing the charged exchange. We stumbled home, barely making it through the door before tearing into each other. That night, our lovemaking was primal—sheets tangled, bodies slick with Mumbai’s heat, every thrust fueled by the memory of that stranger’s hungry eyes on me. We’d stumbled onto a secret fire, a way to ignite each other like never before.
A few weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant. Soon after, Arjun slipped a mangalsutra around my neck in a quiet temple ceremony, our families beaming with pride. We left the bustling chaos of Mumbai for a serene village in Maharashtra, trading city lights for mango groves and nosy neighbors. With our little one on the way and roots in a tight-knit community, we had to temper our wild streak. Our candaulistic desires—born from those electric Mumbai nights—became a rare treat, indulged only when we slipped away from prying eyes.
But oh, the adventures we chased! Weekend getaways to Goa’s beaches, where I’d let my saree slip in the breeze for strangers’ delight, or discreet trips to Pune’s upscale hotels, where Arjun would orchestrate fleeting exposures to eager onlookers. Each time, we’d return home buzzing, our passion rekindled in ways the village could never suspect. These tales, dripping with heat and daring, we’ll share as time permits—memories of a love that thrives on the edge.
One sultry morning, she sauntered to the door in nothing but a lacy red bra and matching panties, her skin glowing under the soft light filtering through the curtains. As always, she pressed a warm, teasing kiss on my cheek, her jasmine-scented hair brushing my face. As I stepped out, she leaned against the doorframe, her voice husky, “Arjun, can you spot the postman on the street? I’m expecting a registered parcel today.”
I shut the door behind me and strolled down the lane, spotting the postman just five houses away, his khaki uniform unmistakable. He’d be at our door in minutes. I chuckled, picturing Kavita scrambling for her dupatta or saree, her bare midriff flashing as she rushed. Then a naughtier thought struck—what if she mistook his knock for me returning and flung the door open in that scandalous lingerie? My pulse quickened, a strange cocktail of jealousy and desire simmering within me. The idea of him feasting his eyes on her barely-clad body sent a jolt through me, arousal creeping in where I least expected it.
All day at the office, my mind replayed the scene—her standing there, the postman’s gaze tracing her voluptuous figure. I wanted to call her, to ask, but resisted. It wasn’t until dinner, over steaming plates of biryani, that I casually probed, “Did your parcel arrive alright?”
She smiled, twirling a strand of hair. “Oh yes, just after you left. Didn’t you see him down the road?”
“Hope you had time to cover up,” I said, keeping my tone light, though my heart raced.
“Actually, no,” she giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “The doorbell rang, and I thought it was you forgetting your keys again. I just swung the door open. You should’ve seen his face—poor man didn’t know where to look! I think I turned redder than a ripe tomato.”
“What happened next?” I asked, feigning nonchalance, though my imagination was running wild.
“I froze for a second, then stammered an apology, saying I thought it was you. Signed for the parcel while he tried not to stare at my legs—or higher. His eyes kept darting, like he couldn’t help himself.”
“Probably the highlight of his day,” I teased, laughing to mask the heat rising in me.
That night, our lovemaking was electric. Kavita was insatiable, her nails digging into my back as we moved together, and I couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, nearly naked, for a stranger’s eyes. It drove me wild.
Days passed, our routine unchanged—Kavita waving me off each morning, her saree slipping low on her hips or her blouse clinging to her skin. One chaotic morning, as I hunted for my keys, she appeared in the hallway in a sheer black bra and panties, the lace barely containing her. My hand was on the latch when she covered it with hers, stopping me. Her lips crashed into mine, hot and demanding, her tongue teasing me in a way that made me want to drag her back to bed right then.
After a playful tussle, I pried the door open and stepped out, leaving her framed in the doorway. As I reached the gate, I tossed over my shoulder, “Expecting another delivery, jaan?” She laughed, blowing me a kiss, her hips swaying as she shut the door.
Walking through the chaotic Mumbai traffic—honking rickshaws and idling cars—I realized anyone passing by could’ve glimpsed her. The thought of drivers stealing glances at her bare skin sent a thrill through me. I was starting to crave it—wanting others to see my stunning Kavita in all her glory.
That night, tangled in the sheets, I whispered how her morning tease had left me burning for her all day. In the heat of passion, I spun a fantasy of her being caught again, exposed for others. Gasping, she confessed that the postman incident had ignited something in her. Pressing her, I learned she’d loved his hungry gaze raking over her—and after he left, she’d locked the door, slid her hand between her thighs, and brought herself to a shuddering climax. Her words pushed us both over the edge, our cries mingling as we came together.
Over the next few days, my mind buzzed with fantasies of her being seen. I decided to nudge things further when the chance came. It didn’t take long. One morning, as I was about to leave, she called from upstairs, “Arjun, wait!” She descended in a skin-toned bra and panty set, the fabric so sheer it was practically invisible. My throat tightened as she pressed herself against me, her lips devouring mine, her breasts soft against my chest. I was rock-hard, dizzy with lust.
Returning her embrace, I slid my hands behind her, unhooked her bra, and let it slip off, her dark nipples hardening in the cool air. She didn’t flinch—her eyes told me she was as thrilled as I was. Still locked together, she twisted the latch, murmuring, “You’ll miss your train, love.” As I pulled away, she let the bra drop to the floor, standing there topless. I yanked her back for one last, deep kiss, silently begging her to indulge my new obsession.
My heart pounded as she nudged me out, her arm coyly covering her breasts. I walked backward, unable to look away. At the gate, she stepped back, dropped her arm, and waved—her full, ripe breasts swaying freely. I stood there, grinning like an idiot, until she shut the door.
That night, we surrendered to our shared kink, confessing how much it turned us on, plotting how to push it further.
Weeks later, Kavita took over the tale: After the postman incident, I was hooked. Arjun came home ravenous on days I waved him off in next to nothing—our nights were a blur of sweat and moans, fueled by fantasies of other men catching me. I wanted to test the waters, but only if Arjun was as eager as I was.
The chance came when we planned a night out to celebrate our first date anniversary. Arjun booked a table at a posh hotel in Bandra, suggesting I wear my black choli and lehenga—a daring outfit with a plunging neckline. I dressed early, admiring myself in the mirror. On a whim, I ditched the bra, my nipples stiffening against the silky fabric, their outline shamelessly visible. I felt like a Bollywood siren.
Arjun’s eyes darkened with lust when I joined him in the living room. I twirled, and he tugged at the choli’s ties, loosening them until my cleavage spilled out. “Maybe we’ll loosen it more later,” he growled, pulling me close.
At the restaurant, I sat facing the wall, shrugging off my shawl so the choli slipped, baring one breast. Arjun’s gaze smoldered as he urged me to stay exposed. A tall, older waiter with a salt-and-pepper beard approached, and I hesitated—cover up or let him see? I chickened out, tugging the fabric just enough to hide my nipple.
He handed us menus, his eyes flickering to my chest as he listed the specials. My nipples betrayed me, hardening under his scrutiny. When I ordered, I met his gaze, then glanced down at my barely-covered breasts, letting him know I was fine with his stares. His sly smile said it all.
Dinner was a tease—Arjun whispering how my flirting with the waiter had him throbbing, the wine loosening my inhibitions. By the bill, I was tipsy and dripping with need. Arjun adjusted my choli, exposing the edge of my areola. The waiter’s eyes locked on it as he took our payment, and I reveled in the heat of his gaze.
In the lounge, I crossed my legs on a sofa, my lehenga riding up to show creamy thighs. The bar steward couldn’t stop staring. Arjun egged me on, and I leaned forward, letting my nipple peek out. The steward’s jaw tightened as he served our drinks, and I squirmed, aching for more.
Later, at a crowded Colaba wine bar, I perched on a high stool, sans panties—Arjun had slipped them off earlier. Two guys in their twenties sidled up, drawn by my disheveled lehenga. I flirted shamelessly, leaning in so they could peek down my choli. Arjun’s hand on my thigh parted my legs, baring me beneath the table. Their compliments—how sexy I looked, how lucky Arjun was—sent shivers through me.
As we neared our taxi time, Arjun untied my choli’s knot, leaving it to my whims. I laughed, letting it slip, one breast fully exposed. Their hungry stares were intoxicating. In the taxi home, Arjun peeled off my shawl, the driver sneaking glances as we kissed and groped, lost in our reckless desire.
As we neared the end of our lane in Bandra, we asked the taxi driver to stop a little short of our building. He’d likely caught glimpses of our heated fumbling in the backseat—my lehenga riding up, Arjun’s hands roaming—and we didn’t want him pulling right up to our door. Clutching the flimsy fabric of my choli and lehenga together with one hand, I stepped out into the humid night air, my skin tingling from the thrill. Arjun handed me a ₹2000 note for the ₹1200 fare, his fingers brushing mine with intent.
As I leaned toward the driver’s window to pay, Arjun grabbed my free hand, tugging gently—a silent dare to let go of the fabric. My breath hitched, a delicious shiver racing through me as I surrendered to his wicked game. The lehenga and choli parted like petals, baring my sweat-slicked curves to the driver’s gaze. His eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face as he fumbled with the change. “Let me count it out for you,” he said, his voice thick, deliberately dragging out the moment as he handed me the notes one by one, his stare drinking in my exposed breasts and the hint of my navel beneath the loosened waistband.
Arjun’s grip tightened on my hand, his arousal palpable as we stood there, the driver’s wink sealing the charged exchange. We stumbled home, barely making it through the door before tearing into each other. That night, our lovemaking was primal—sheets tangled, bodies slick with Mumbai’s heat, every thrust fueled by the memory of that stranger’s hungry eyes on me. We’d stumbled onto a secret fire, a way to ignite each other like never before.
A few weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant. Soon after, Arjun slipped a mangalsutra around my neck in a quiet temple ceremony, our families beaming with pride. We left the bustling chaos of Mumbai for a serene village in Maharashtra, trading city lights for mango groves and nosy neighbors. With our little one on the way and roots in a tight-knit community, we had to temper our wild streak. Our candaulistic desires—born from those electric Mumbai nights—became a rare treat, indulged only when we slipped away from prying eyes.
But oh, the adventures we chased! Weekend getaways to Goa’s beaches, where I’d let my saree slip in the breeze for strangers’ delight, or discreet trips to Pune’s upscale hotels, where Arjun would orchestrate fleeting exposures to eager onlookers. Each time, we’d return home buzzing, our passion rekindled in ways the village could never suspect. These tales, dripping with heat and daring, we’ll share as time permits—memories of a love that thrives on the edge.
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