3 hours ago
**Chapter 1: The Whisper That Lingered**
Aamir and Meher’s life in their cozy two-bedroom flat in Bandra East was the kind of quiet happiness that felt like it had always been there. Married for two years and three months, they had settled into a rhythm as natural as the tide rolling in at Juhu Beach. Their marriage had been arranged the old-fashioned way—through family friends in Mumbai. Aamir’s people were from Bandra East, Meher’s from Santacruz West. The rishta was proposed over tea and sweets at Meher’s parents’ house one Sunday afternoon. Aamir had seen her photograph first—a simple studio shot, her in a soft pink dupatta, eyes downcast, a shy half-smile. He’d said yes before the second cup of chai was poured.
Meher was still the same gentle girl who’d walked into his life wearing a pale lavender anarkali and jasmine in her hair. Small-boned, fair, with large kohl-rimmed eyes that seemed to hold quiet stories. Her laughter was soft, like wind moving through leaves. She had never been with any man before Aamir—not a hand on her arm, not even from a cousin after she turned thirteen. To him she felt like something rare and untouched, a flower that had opened only in his presence.
She was loyal in the quiet, everyday ways that matter most. She noticed when he came home tired, would leave his favorite masala chai brewing before he asked. She pressed his shirts with meticulous care, folding the collars up the way he preferred, and waited up for him no matter how late his office kept him, even if it meant dozing on the sofa with her dupatta dbangd over her like a blanket. Every night before sleep she would press her forehead to his and whisper, “You are my whole world, Aamir.” It was a ritual, one that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.
Their evenings were simple pleasures. Meher would hum old Bollywood tunes while cooking dinner—aromatic kebabs sizzling on the tawa or biryani simmering on the stove, the smell wafting through the flat like a warm embrace. They’d eat together on the small balcony, legs brushing under the table, watching the city lights flicker against the night sky like distant stars. They talked about everything and nothing: his frustrating code bugs at work that kept him up late, her dreams of starting a small tailoring business from home one day, designing modest outfits for friends and neighbors. Afterward, they’d sit close on the sofa, her head on his shoulder, watching films. Aamir loved how she’d blush during the romantic scenes, hiding her face in his neck with a giggle, her breath warm against his skin.
One Tuesday evening, the melody of "Tera Chehra" from *Sanam Teri Kasam* filled the room. Meher was curled against him, eyes fixed on the screen. As the tragic fate of Saru unfolded, her bottom lip trembled. Tears pooled in her wide eyes, spilling over her cheeks. She didn't just cry; she mourned for the characters, her sensitivity so raw that she felt their pain as her own.
“It’s so unfair, Aamir,” she sobbed softly, burying her face in his shoulder. “How can love be so beautiful and so painful at the same time? I couldn't breathe if I ever lost you.”
Aamir held her tighter, kissing her hair, but a small, dark seed of a thought sprouted in his mind. She is so pure, so deeply affected by emotion. What would happen if that intensity was directed somewhere else?
Intimacy between them was tender and unhurried, a reflection of their bond. Meher was affectionate in bed—her touches light and loving, her kisses soft and lingering, always putting him first. She made love like she did everything else: with care and devotion, her body responding to his with a quiet passion that left him breathless. Aamir adored her for it, but over time, a shadow crept in. He began to wonder if there was more—something wilder, something that could make her lose that composed sweetness, just for a moment, and bring them even closer.
It started subtly, in the quiet hours after she fell asleep. Aamir would lie awake, scrolling through his phone—anonymous forums, stories people told in the dark corners of the internet. Husbands who watched their wives with other men. At first, the idea repelled him: how could anyone share someone so precious? But the more he read, the more it lingered. Every time he heard her stir in her sleep, his thumb would fly to the 'Close All Tabs' button, the blue light of the screen casting a momentary, ghostly pallor over his face. He’d check his lockscreen to ground himself—a candid photo of Meher laughing on their balcony, the sun catching the jasmine in her hair. It was an aching point for him; those eyes on the screen were so full of uncomplicated, singular love that they seemed to judge him. He felt like a thief in his own marriage, stealing the peace from that face before she even knew it was gone. He deleted the tabs, swore he’d stop. But the thoughts came back stronger.
He wrestled with it alone for months, the guilt gnawing at him like a persistent ache. He’d watch her in the kitchen, stirring dal with that focused expression, her braid swinging gently, and wonder what it would be like to see her stirred by someone else—someone who could bring out a side of her he’d never witnessed. He hated himself for it—she’s perfect, she’s mine, why isn’t that enough?—but the fantasy took root, blooming in the quiet moments when he was alone on the local train or staring at his computer screen at work.
Finally, after four months of internal torment, he tested the waters. It was a rainy Saturday night, the kind where the city smelled of wet earth and frying pakoras from the street vendors below. They were in bed, the power out, a single candle flickering on the nightstand. Meher was in her favorite white cotton nightie, the thin fabric clinging slightly from the humidity. They had made love slowly, her body warm and responsive under his.
As they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain, “Jaan… I had a dream. About someone else seeing you like this. So beautiful, so… open. And it didn’t make me angry. It made me want you more.”
She stiffened immediately. Lifted her head to look at him, eyes wide in the candlelight. “Aamir? What do you mean? Someone else?”
He backpedaled, heart racing. “Nothing, just… a silly thought. Forget it.”
But she didn’t. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. “No, tell me. Why would you say that?”
He sighed, sitting up too, taking her hand in his. “It’s… a fantasy, Meher. Seeing you desired by another man. Not because you’re not enough—god, you’re everything. But… the thought of you being wanted so badly by someone else… it excites me.”
She pulled her hand away, face paling. “Aamir… that’s wrong. I’m your wife. Only yours. How can you even imagine sharing me?”
She cried then—quiet, wounded tears—and he held her until she fell asleep, whispering apologies. The next morning, she was distant, her silence over breakfast more painful than any argument. He promised he wouldn't think like that again. But the seed was planted.
Over the next weeks, he didn’t mention it directly. But even as the words of his promise left his mouth, the thoughts still curled in the corners of his mind like smoke.
Two months later, during another intimate night, he told a truth rather than asking a question. “Jaan, when I see a strong man on the street, I find myself wondering… what if he held you like this? What if he made you feel the intensity I see in those movies you love?”
She froze. “Aamir… please, don’t.”
He stopped immediately, kissing her forehead. “I'm sorry. I won't.”
But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she asked, voice small: “Why does it excite you so much?”
He explained—haltingly, honestly. How it was about seeing her beauty through another’s eyes, the thrill of her being wanted so badly. She listened. Didn’t cry. Just held him tighter that night.
The conversations started then—slow, tentative, always in the dark. Month six: she let him describe a faceless man touching her. She lay perfectly still, her eyes closed tight, clutching his shoulders as if anchoring herself to him. Her body didn't respond with pleasure; it reacted with a frantic, nervous energy, her breath hitching not from lust, but from the sheer weight of his words. Afterward, she whispered, “I am only listening because it’s you, Aamir. Only because I want to give you what you need.”
Month eight: one stormy night, after he painted a vivid picture of a tall stranger undressing her while Aamir watched, she lay silent a long time. Then: “If it makes you happy… truly happy… I’ll think about it. Only once. Only to see you smile.”
Aamir’s heart leaped. He kissed her tears away, held her face. “Only if you want it too, Meher. Never just for me.”
She nodded, eyes shining with a mix of devotion and dread. “I love you more than anything. If this is what you need… I’ll try. For you.”
It took another three months of reassurance—late-night talks where he promised she could stop at any moment. She worried about their family, their reputation, her own heart. “What if it changes us?” she asked once, voice trembling.
“We won’t let it,” he said, kissing her palms. “This is for us. To make us closer.”
Finally, she agreed.
![[Image: Fe6TyKN.jpeg]](https://i.imgur.com/Fe6TyKN.jpeg)
Aamir and Meher’s life in their cozy two-bedroom flat in Bandra East was the kind of quiet happiness that felt like it had always been there. Married for two years and three months, they had settled into a rhythm as natural as the tide rolling in at Juhu Beach. Their marriage had been arranged the old-fashioned way—through family friends in Mumbai. Aamir’s people were from Bandra East, Meher’s from Santacruz West. The rishta was proposed over tea and sweets at Meher’s parents’ house one Sunday afternoon. Aamir had seen her photograph first—a simple studio shot, her in a soft pink dupatta, eyes downcast, a shy half-smile. He’d said yes before the second cup of chai was poured.
Meher was still the same gentle girl who’d walked into his life wearing a pale lavender anarkali and jasmine in her hair. Small-boned, fair, with large kohl-rimmed eyes that seemed to hold quiet stories. Her laughter was soft, like wind moving through leaves. She had never been with any man before Aamir—not a hand on her arm, not even from a cousin after she turned thirteen. To him she felt like something rare and untouched, a flower that had opened only in his presence.
She was loyal in the quiet, everyday ways that matter most. She noticed when he came home tired, would leave his favorite masala chai brewing before he asked. She pressed his shirts with meticulous care, folding the collars up the way he preferred, and waited up for him no matter how late his office kept him, even if it meant dozing on the sofa with her dupatta dbangd over her like a blanket. Every night before sleep she would press her forehead to his and whisper, “You are my whole world, Aamir.” It was a ritual, one that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.
Their evenings were simple pleasures. Meher would hum old Bollywood tunes while cooking dinner—aromatic kebabs sizzling on the tawa or biryani simmering on the stove, the smell wafting through the flat like a warm embrace. They’d eat together on the small balcony, legs brushing under the table, watching the city lights flicker against the night sky like distant stars. They talked about everything and nothing: his frustrating code bugs at work that kept him up late, her dreams of starting a small tailoring business from home one day, designing modest outfits for friends and neighbors. Afterward, they’d sit close on the sofa, her head on his shoulder, watching films. Aamir loved how she’d blush during the romantic scenes, hiding her face in his neck with a giggle, her breath warm against his skin.
One Tuesday evening, the melody of "Tera Chehra" from *Sanam Teri Kasam* filled the room. Meher was curled against him, eyes fixed on the screen. As the tragic fate of Saru unfolded, her bottom lip trembled. Tears pooled in her wide eyes, spilling over her cheeks. She didn't just cry; she mourned for the characters, her sensitivity so raw that she felt their pain as her own.
“It’s so unfair, Aamir,” she sobbed softly, burying her face in his shoulder. “How can love be so beautiful and so painful at the same time? I couldn't breathe if I ever lost you.”
Aamir held her tighter, kissing her hair, but a small, dark seed of a thought sprouted in his mind. She is so pure, so deeply affected by emotion. What would happen if that intensity was directed somewhere else?
Intimacy between them was tender and unhurried, a reflection of their bond. Meher was affectionate in bed—her touches light and loving, her kisses soft and lingering, always putting him first. She made love like she did everything else: with care and devotion, her body responding to his with a quiet passion that left him breathless. Aamir adored her for it, but over time, a shadow crept in. He began to wonder if there was more—something wilder, something that could make her lose that composed sweetness, just for a moment, and bring them even closer.
It started subtly, in the quiet hours after she fell asleep. Aamir would lie awake, scrolling through his phone—anonymous forums, stories people told in the dark corners of the internet. Husbands who watched their wives with other men. At first, the idea repelled him: how could anyone share someone so precious? But the more he read, the more it lingered. Every time he heard her stir in her sleep, his thumb would fly to the 'Close All Tabs' button, the blue light of the screen casting a momentary, ghostly pallor over his face. He’d check his lockscreen to ground himself—a candid photo of Meher laughing on their balcony, the sun catching the jasmine in her hair. It was an aching point for him; those eyes on the screen were so full of uncomplicated, singular love that they seemed to judge him. He felt like a thief in his own marriage, stealing the peace from that face before she even knew it was gone. He deleted the tabs, swore he’d stop. But the thoughts came back stronger.
He wrestled with it alone for months, the guilt gnawing at him like a persistent ache. He’d watch her in the kitchen, stirring dal with that focused expression, her braid swinging gently, and wonder what it would be like to see her stirred by someone else—someone who could bring out a side of her he’d never witnessed. He hated himself for it—she’s perfect, she’s mine, why isn’t that enough?—but the fantasy took root, blooming in the quiet moments when he was alone on the local train or staring at his computer screen at work.
Finally, after four months of internal torment, he tested the waters. It was a rainy Saturday night, the kind where the city smelled of wet earth and frying pakoras from the street vendors below. They were in bed, the power out, a single candle flickering on the nightstand. Meher was in her favorite white cotton nightie, the thin fabric clinging slightly from the humidity. They had made love slowly, her body warm and responsive under his.
As they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain, “Jaan… I had a dream. About someone else seeing you like this. So beautiful, so… open. And it didn’t make me angry. It made me want you more.”
She stiffened immediately. Lifted her head to look at him, eyes wide in the candlelight. “Aamir? What do you mean? Someone else?”
He backpedaled, heart racing. “Nothing, just… a silly thought. Forget it.”
But she didn’t. She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. “No, tell me. Why would you say that?”
He sighed, sitting up too, taking her hand in his. “It’s… a fantasy, Meher. Seeing you desired by another man. Not because you’re not enough—god, you’re everything. But… the thought of you being wanted so badly by someone else… it excites me.”
She pulled her hand away, face paling. “Aamir… that’s wrong. I’m your wife. Only yours. How can you even imagine sharing me?”
She cried then—quiet, wounded tears—and he held her until she fell asleep, whispering apologies. The next morning, she was distant, her silence over breakfast more painful than any argument. He promised he wouldn't think like that again. But the seed was planted.
Over the next weeks, he didn’t mention it directly. But even as the words of his promise left his mouth, the thoughts still curled in the corners of his mind like smoke.
Two months later, during another intimate night, he told a truth rather than asking a question. “Jaan, when I see a strong man on the street, I find myself wondering… what if he held you like this? What if he made you feel the intensity I see in those movies you love?”
She froze. “Aamir… please, don’t.”
He stopped immediately, kissing her forehead. “I'm sorry. I won't.”
But she didn’t push him away. Instead, she asked, voice small: “Why does it excite you so much?”
He explained—haltingly, honestly. How it was about seeing her beauty through another’s eyes, the thrill of her being wanted so badly. She listened. Didn’t cry. Just held him tighter that night.
The conversations started then—slow, tentative, always in the dark. Month six: she let him describe a faceless man touching her. She lay perfectly still, her eyes closed tight, clutching his shoulders as if anchoring herself to him. Her body didn't respond with pleasure; it reacted with a frantic, nervous energy, her breath hitching not from lust, but from the sheer weight of his words. Afterward, she whispered, “I am only listening because it’s you, Aamir. Only because I want to give you what you need.”
Month eight: one stormy night, after he painted a vivid picture of a tall stranger undressing her while Aamir watched, she lay silent a long time. Then: “If it makes you happy… truly happy… I’ll think about it. Only once. Only to see you smile.”
Aamir’s heart leaped. He kissed her tears away, held her face. “Only if you want it too, Meher. Never just for me.”
She nodded, eyes shining with a mix of devotion and dread. “I love you more than anything. If this is what you need… I’ll try. For you.”
It took another three months of reassurance—late-night talks where he promised she could stop at any moment. She worried about their family, their reputation, her own heart. “What if it changes us?” she asked once, voice trembling.
“We won’t let it,” he said, kissing her palms. “This is for us. To make us closer.”
Finally, she agreed.
Aamir’s lockscreen – the face that judges him every night
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)
