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

Marwari Bhabhi Tanvi Kept The House Empty For Me

9 min readBhabhi Sex Stories

Tanvi Bhabhi yanked the wet odhni off the terrace line so hard the wooden clip spun into the tulsi pot.

“You heard me on the phone,” she said, still not looking at me. “Don’t pretend you came up only for the bucket.”

I set the plastic bucket beside the drain. Heat sat on the Bikaner roof the way it sits on every old Marwari house in this part of India, white and close, with torn kites snagged on the neighboring wires.

Girish bhaiya’s voice had been thin through her speaker ten minutes earlier. He wanted his wife at the cloth market with the aunts. She had told him the migraine had already started, that the light on the stairs would make her sick.

The earlier half had reached me from the courtyard. At noon she had given the driver three boxes of dry fruit and the packed gifts and told him not to wait in the lane.

“You sent the gifts first,” I said. “Then you invented the headache.”

She Had Already Sent The Gifts

She turned. The maroon blouse clung dark along her spine. At twenty-nine she wore sindoor like a choice she renewed every morning, not like a mark someone else had put there.

“I wanted the house empty,” she said. “Not because of you. Wipe that look off.”

The look stayed. I was twenty-four and I had lived in this joint family long enough to know when a lie had a second floor. I was her devar, the younger brother. She was Girish’s wife, my bhabhi, standing in two o’clock sun with a story already spent.

“If it is not because of me, why am I the only one you are shouting at?”

She laughed once, short. “Because you stand there like a clerk who caught a wrong entry.”

“You chose this afternoon, Bhabhi.”

The honorific did not soften anything. She stepped closer anyway, odhni bunched in her fists, wet silk slapping my wrist.

“Say that again and I will send you down to fill the tank myself.”

I did not go down. The terrace floor burned through my socks. Her thumb, without asking the rest of her, rubbed that wet cloth against my pulse.

She noticed the thumb and did not pull it back.

“Girish thinks I am lying down,” she said. “He thinks I cannot even look at sunlight.”

“And you can look at me.”

“I have been looking at you since Holi, Kabir. That is not news in this house. The news is I already made the driver leave.”

She let the odhni fall crooked over the line. Then she put her mouth on mine as if she had been arguing with the idea all morning and had lost.

I held her waist. The blouse was damp under my palms. She bit my lower lip, not testing, and when I made a sound she smiled against my teeth.

“If you freeze now I will call you a coward until Diwali.”

“I am not freezing.”

“Then put your hands where you have been staring.”

The top hook of her blouse opened under my fingers. She watched the way she watched household accounts, waiting for a mistake. There was none. The second hook gave. She shrugged the maroon cloth down her arms and the afternoon hit her skin in a wide, shameless sheet.

Her petticoat knot sat high. I pulled it and she helped, impatient. Cotton dropped. She stepped out and kicked the cloth toward the water drum so it would not cook on the hot floor.

She stood there in a thin gold chain and sindoor. I had seen her in nighties and in festival clothes. This was different because she had arranged the empty house for it.

I said her name. She put my hand on her breast and said, “Don’t narrate.”

I bent and took her nipple in my mouth. She held my hair and swore under her breath, Marwari first, then nothing. Her other hand dragged my shirt up. I stripped it. The terrace wall hid us from the next roof, mostly. A water tank and two drying sheets did the rest.

Even in India, a Marwari bhabhi is supposed to keep a terrace decent. She did not. She opened my trousers with both hands. My cock was already hard, obvious in the hard light. She wrapped her fingers around it and looked at my face instead of it, which was worse and better.

“You wanted this when I was still pretending to be a proper sister-in-law.”

“You are still my bhabhi.”

“Then be a little afraid. And don’t stop.”

She stroked me slowly, thumb still cool from the odhni. I slid my fingers between her legs. She was already slick. When I found her clit she rocked on my hand and the gold chain jumped against her throat.

We were going to do it against the parapet. That was the decision, quick and stupid and hers, until the lane interrupted it.

When The Lane Called Up

A man’s voice bounced off the lower walls. “Tanker aaya! Paani!” Someone banged a tin twice, the way the lane always announced water.

Tanvi Bhabhi froze with my cock in her fist. For a second I thought she would shove me toward the stairs and become the migraine again.

She did the other thing. She grabbed my shirt off the drum, shoved my trousers at my hip, and pulled me through the terrace door into the dressing room that opened behind it. The room was dim, lined with steel trunks and her hanging lehengas. A wooden stool sat under the high window.

“Not on the roof,” she said, breathing hard. “I am not giving the tanker man a story.”

The change was not a pause. Against the parapet would have been a scramble. In here she could sit me down and take the time she had already stolen from Girish.

She pushed me onto the stool. My trousers were still half on. She dragged them to my ankles and climbed into my lap, knees bracketing my thighs, her wetness painting the head of my cock before I was fully inside.

“Tell me if it is too much,” she whispered, and then she sank down anyway because I nodded and held her hips.

Heat closed around me. She was tight from standing too long in the sun, then suddenly not, taking me in a slow, greedy slide until her ass met my thighs. Her forehead knocked mine. The sindoor smeared a little toward her brow.

“Move,” she said.

I did. Short thrusts at first because the stool creaked and the tanker horn was still complaining in the lane. She hated the caution. She rose and dropped harder, using my shoulders, her breasts in my face, the gold chain tapping my mouth.

“You thought I stayed for rest,” she said against my hair. “I stayed because this house is quieter when you are in it, and I am tired of pretending that is respectable.”

I licked the sweat at her sternum. She clenched around me and laughed, startled at herself. The dressing room smelled of naphthalene and her skin. Outside, the tanker man shouted for someone to open the underground lid. Nobody answered him yet.

Her rhythm broke when I sucked her nipple again. She cursed, grabbed the window ledge behind my head, and fucked me with her whole weight. My hands were on her ass, spreading her so I could feel every wet inch. She liked that. She told me so by biting my shoulder, not gently.

The stool legs scraped. I stood up with her still on me, two steps, and put her back against the trunk. She hooked her legs around my waist. That angle made her gasp into my neck, a raw sound she would never use in the kitchen.

“Kabir. There. Don’t you dare go polite.”

I drove into her. The trunk shuddered. A hanging lehenga brushed her shoulder and she knocked it aside without looking. Her pussy gripped me on every pullback, messy, loud in the small room. I rubbed her clit with my thumb because her face told me to, and she came first, shaking, inner muscles milking me in hard little waves while she tried not to shout.

She did not fully succeed. The sound she made was small and broken and mine.

I was close behind her. She felt it, locked her ankles, and said, “In me.” That was all. I buried myself and came in long pulses, holding her up, forehead on the painted steel of the trunk. She stroked the back of my neck through it, almost kind, which was more dangerous than the bite.

We stayed joined until my legs threatened to fold. Then she let her feet find the floor. Come slid down her inner thigh. She caught it with two fingers, looked at it, and wiped it on my stomach with a crooked smile that did not apologize.

“Migraine,” she said. “Very convincing.”

From the lane the tanker man yelled again, impatient now. Tanvi Bhabhi picked her petticoat off the floor where she had dragged it in with her foot. She stepped into it, tied the knot without looking, and pulled the maroon blouse on over skin that still shone.

The hooks sat wrong. She fixed two of them and left the third. Sindoor was a faint streak toward her hairline. She rubbed it into a less obvious smudge with her knuckle, the way a woman does when she is about to walk into sunlight and lie.

Tea Water Below Us

I was still sitting on the stool with my trousers around my ankles when she opened the inner door to the stair.

“Hang the odhni straight before you come down,” she said, already on the first step. “If it looks like a fight, Girish will ask questions I am not in the mood to answer.”

She went. Bare feet on stone, voice changing as she reached the courtyard, becoming the daughter-in-law who had been resting. I heard her tell the tanker man to fill it properly this time, that last week the tank had run dry before evening tea.

The ordinary sentence carried the whole afternoon with it. She had sent the gifts, invented the ache, taken me on the stool, and now she was bargaining about water as if my come were not still inside her.

I pulled my clothes on. Through the high window the lane clattered. Her laugh rose once, composed, aimed at the man with the pipe, and I understood the consequence without anyone naming it. She would keep the migraine for Girish. She would keep the emptied house as a method. And she had left me to straighten a wet odhni so the terrace would look like nothing had happened except laundry and heat.

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