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Two fully clothed adults, one adult Indian man and one adult Indian woman in an Indian apartment entry.

My Wife in Guwahati Skipped the Reunion and Kept Me Home

9 min readIndian Sex Stories

Shalini stood at the dressing table with one gold earring already hooked and the other caught between her teeth. The green silk sari sat low on her hips, and the blouse still gaped where the last two hooks had defeated her.

I waited at the front door with my sandals on, ready to walk my wife down to the shared gate. Sunday lunch in Guwahati meant her old classmates would already be occupying a long table, the way reunion crowds still did in this part of India.

“Don’t take me,” she said, and the earring dropped into the small brass tray.

That halted my hand on the latch.

She Admitted It Before Leaving

She looked at me through the mirror instead of turning. “I messaged Priya that I had a stomach ache. That is a lie. I put this sari on because I thought I could force myself out of the house. I don’t want the reunion. I want you to stay and fuck me before I lose the nerve.”

The sandals suddenly felt stupid on my feet. “You dressed for two hours.”

“I know.” Her voice stayed even. “Come away from the door, Vikram. If you want to go downstairs alone, go. I am not stepping out.”

Priya had been counting attendance since their college years in the city, and Shalini usually treated those lunches like a duty she could perform with lipstick and polite second helpings. Missing one would start talk about whether her marriage had gone dull. She had chosen the lie anyway.

The look she gave my reflection did not ask for comfort. It asked me to decide with my body.

I came back across the small living room. She still faced the mirror, throat moving when I stopped behind her. My fingers found the open blouse because helping her with those last hooks had been our Sunday habit since the first year of marriage.

The hook clicked. She did not thank me.

Her fingers closed on my wrist and pulled my palm flat against her stomach, over the silk. Heat came through the cloth. She was not holding her breath the way she did when she was late. She was deciding.

“Not the hook,” Shalini said. “Me.”

Silence held for a second. I kept my hand where she had put it. She pressed back until my hips met the drape of the sari, and that pressure was clearer than any extra speech.

Her other hand covered mine and guided it up over the blouse until I had the weight of her breast. The nipple was already tight under the lining.

A small sound left her. It did not belong to a lunch with batchmates.

We stayed at the dressing table long enough for the second earring to remain forgotten in the tray. I kissed the side of her neck where the thin gold chain lay against skin she had powdered. She smelled of the jasmine oil she used on reunion days, which made the whole lie sharper.

She reached behind and opened the two hooks I had just closed. The blouse loosened. She shrugged it forward without ceremony, and it hung at her elbows until she shook it to the floor.

“Don’t be gentle because it is daytime,” my wife said. “I have been thinking about your cock since I ironed this pallu. Priya can eat without me.”

That line did more than the sari coming undone. I turned her by the waist. We kissed with her mouth already open, teeth knocking once, her fingers working my belt. The cotton shirt I had tucked in for the gate came free in two pulls. Cool air hit my stomach, then her palms.

She walked me backward toward the bed, still kissing, until my calves hit the wooden frame.

The sandals had to go. I kicked them off. One struck the wardrobe and she laughed into my mouth, a real laugh, and then the laugh died when my hand got under the sari and found the beige underwear she saved for long events. The cotton was already damp.

“Take them off.”

I drew them down her thighs. She stepped out, awkward in the coil of silk, and sat on the edge of the bed. The pallu slid off her shoulder. She pulled me between her knees by the open belt and looked at me as if I might still choose the gate.

I did not.

When she opened my trousers and took me into her mouth, it was not a performance. It was hungry and a little clumsy, the way she got when she had waited through a whole morning of pins and powder and then chosen this instead. Heat, wetness, the faint scrape of teeth she always forgot to watch. My hand stayed in her hair, careful of the pins she had spent twenty minutes setting.

She made a wet sound and glanced up. That glance nearly ended me. I had to pull back, breathing through my teeth.

“On the bed,” I told her.

Shalini lay back on the crumpled pallu and dragged the sari up to her waist. For a moment she was my wife in festival silk with nothing underneath, knees open on our own sheets, and the ceiling fan turning like it did on every ordinary day.

I put my mouth on her because I wanted the taste of that choice. She held my head with both hands. Her thighs tightened, then loosened, then tightened again. Two years of rushed nights after her tuition batches and my site visits had taught me the exact pressure she wanted, and she did not pretend she needed a longer warm-up.

“Inside,” she said, already breathless. “Vikram. Now.”

I moved up her body and pushed into her in one slow go. She was wet enough that there was no fight, only heat closing around me, and her mouth opened against my shoulder. We stayed still for a second because the fit knocked the hurry out of both of us.

Then she hooked her legs around my waist and pulled.

The bed made the cheap rhythmic complaint it always made against the wall. She met every thrust, nails finding skin under the shirt I had not fully removed. Sweat collected in the hollow between her breasts. The green silk was a wreck under us. She still had one earring on. It flashed whenever she turned her face toward the window.

“Harder,” my wife told me.

I gave her that, changing the angle until she clenched and cursed in a whisper that would have horrified the reunion table. Her orgasm took her with her eyes open, staring at the fan, mouth silent at first, then not silent at all. She shook under me and dragged me deeper with her heels, and I almost followed her over.

Overflow Forced Us Off the Bed

That was when the water announced itself.

A thin sheet was already spreading from the attached bathroom, darkening the tiles, reaching for the bed legs. The bucket. Municipal water in our lane came in a rush on Sundays, and I had left the tap open while she was dressing, thinking I would shut it before we left.

“The tank,” she said, and she was still around me when she said it.

Pulling out, clumsy and furious at myself, I crossed the wet floor. The bucket had overflowed long ago. Water sheeted toward the drain that never sat flush. In our colony, like a lot of older apartment blocks across India, an open tap could fill a bucket, climb the tiles, and travel straight into the flat below.

The tap shut with a hard squeak. Behind me, Shalini had followed instead of waiting on the dry bed. Her sari hem wicked water up the silk. She looked at the mess, then at me standing there with trousers around my thighs and my cock still wet from her.

She did not turn back to the mattress.

“Here,” she said. “If we go to the bed the water will follow us. I am not stopping in the middle because you forgot a tap. Finish with me here.”

That changed the next move. There was no return to the same sequence on the sheets. I lifted her toward the closed toilet lid, and she sat for a second, then shook her head, too perched, too comic, and turned around to brace her hands on the edge of the sink.

Cold tile met my bare feet as I stood behind my wife, shoved the sari up over her hips, and slid into her again. Her reflection in the spotted mirror was wrecked and very sure, mouth open, the remaining earring trembling.

She pushed back to meet me. The sink creaked against the wall. Water still dripped from the bucket rim onto my calf. I reached around and rubbed her where she was swollen from the bed, and she slapped the mirror with her palm, not hard, just lost.

“Don’t stop,” Shalini said. “I can hear it dripping. I don’t care.”

The second time she came it was shorter and meaner. Her arms shook. She told me to come, not as a courtesy, as an order, and she kept looking at me in the glass while she said it.

Buried to the base, I held her hips and finished with my forehead on her shoulder blade. For a few breaths the only sounds were the last drip and our breathing in that cramped, wet room.

Downstairs Demanded an Answer

Then the pipe banged.

Three hits, metal on metal, from the floor below. Mr. Barua’s voice came up the plumbing, hoarse and already furious.

“Who left the tap? Water is on my ceiling! Vikram!”

Shalini froze with me still inside her. The next bang was louder, a pipe wrench or a broom handle, something that meant he was standing in his own bathroom staring at a stain.

I pulled out, grabbed my trousers, and dragged them up over wet skin. The shirt hung open, stuck in places. There was no time for the sandals or the belt.

“Go,” she whispered, gathering the sari around her breasts. “He will come up the stairs if you make him wait.”

The sari darkened along the hem and clung to her calves. She did not try to look decent. She only held the cloth to her chest and listened to the next bang.

Water had already drawn a thin tongue across the front-room tiles. Wet footprints marked the path from the bathroom to the latch. At the front door my belt still hung undone. Behind me, my wife stayed on the wet tile, hair pins loose, one earring still in, looking like the reunion had never been real.

The latch turned. Mr. Barua was on the landing, still shouting about his whitewash, and the smell of his cooking came up the stairwell with it. I stepped out of our flat to face him with wet hair and an open shirt, leaving Shalini in the bathroom with the drip still ticking.

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