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

Bhabhi Missed the Bus After Asking To Be Taken From Behind

7 min readBhabhi Sex Stories

Deepa bhabhi had one sandal on and the other hanging from two fingers when she paused at the open door.

“Class is at five,” she said, as if I had asked. “Don’t wait.”

I was her husband’s younger brother, the extra adult in a two-bedroom flat near the port in Kolkata. Sameer had taken a factory shift that ran past dinner. In this part of India, that overtime still paid better than sitting idle, so the afternoon rooms belonged to her and me.

She looked ready to be respectable. Peach kurta, dark palazzo pants, a small bindi, hair twisted up with a clip. The community hall down the lane ran Thursday painting for women who wanted an hour away from stoves.

Workshops like that had opened in neighborhood halls all over India that year, and she treated them like a stamped duty. I should have let her go. The latch was already under her palm.

Instead I looked at the thin cotton stretched over her hips and asked why she had chosen that kurta if she planned to sit among aunties and the smell of turpentine.

Her mouth tightened. The sandal tapped her thigh twice.

“If I answer you properly, I will miss the bus.”

“Then miss it.”

She set the sandal on the shoe rack with more care than the cheap rubber needed. The door stayed open on the landing light. For a second she seemed angry that I had noticed the fabric at all.

Then the anger shifted into something she had been carrying around the flat since lunch.

“I keep walking out because if I stay I will ask you to take me from behind,” she said. “Not the usual way. I want you in my ass, Neel. I have wanted it since you started living here, and I am tired of pretending the class is the only thing on my calendar.”

After the Sentence

That was the line that ruined her exit. I crossed the living room. She met me before I reached the doorframe, both hands fisting my shirt, kissing me as if the hall could burn down.

When she broke the kiss she was already nodding.

“Yes. Now. Don’t make it a debate.”

We left the corridor. She pushed the door shut with her heel and the latch clicked. That was the only practical thing either of us did for a while.

Her clip came out in my fingers. Dark hair fell against the peach collar. I backed her toward the sofa we never used when Sameer was home. She laughed at that, a short sound, then pulled my hand under the kurta.

“Don’t treat me like glass. I asked for this.”

Under the cotton she was warm, no bra, nipples already tight. I said bhabhi the way I said it in the kitchen, and she shivered like the honorific itself was dirty. She opened my trousers herself. I was hard from the sentence alone. She wrapped her fingers around me and looked down as if confirming a rumor she had been repeating in her head.

“Oil,” she said. “Kitchen. The coconut one by the stove. I am not doing this dry.”

The jar was where it always was, next to the turmeric. She stayed by the sofa, palazzo already shoved to her thighs, watching the kitchen doorway like I might vanish with a better idea. I came back and she took the jar out of my hand, unscrewed it, and scooped with two fingers.

“On you first,” she muttered, and she was not shy about it. Warm oil, her fist, a slow twist that made my knees stupid. Then she turned, knees on the sofa cushion, chest to the backrest, kurta rucked up to her waist. The peach cloth bunched under her breasts. She reached back and spread herself with the same oiled fingers, not as a show, as instruction.

“Slow until I say otherwise. Then don’t you dare go gentle.”

The first press made her breath hitch. Tight, hotter than I expected, the kind of resistance that is still a welcome if you wait. I held her hip and let her push back onto me instead of forcing the inch. She swore in a whisper, then laughed at herself, then swore again when the head finally slipped in.

“Stay. Just stay.”

We stayed. A scooter horn bleated in the lane. Somewhere below, a pressure cooker whistled and got ignored. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. The next small rock of her hips took more of me, and the sound she made was not pain so much as surprise at her own appetite.

“That,” she said. “Again.”

I gave her again. The palazzo trapped her knees, which kept her from opening wide, which made every movement smaller and meaner. Oil shone at the place we joined. My bhabhi, the woman who packed Sameer’s tiffin without looking up, was gripping the sofa back and feeding herself my cock by centimeters.

When she said harder, I listened. The sofa feet scraped. Her bindi had drifted toward her temple. I reached around and found her clit already slick, and the double attention made her drop her head between her arms.

“Don’t stop that. If you stop that I will kill you.”

I did not stop. The rhythm we found was ugly in the best way, not a film, not a list of poses, just her asking and me answering until her thighs shook. She came first with her mouth open against the upholstery, a broken yes that had my name in it and bhabhi in it and nothing respectable left. The clench around me almost ended it. I had to freeze, forehead on her spine, counting the fan blades.

“You can,” she said, wrecked and clear. “I want to feel it.”

Two more drives and I spilled in her ass, holding her hip hard enough to leave a print she would have to hide under the kurta. We stayed locked like that, breathing like we had run the stairs. Oil, sweat, the cheap fabric of the sofa. She reached back blindly and touched my wrist, not to push me off, just to keep the contact while the aftershocks went through her.

“My legs are nonsense,” she said at last.

“You still have a class.”

“I know. That is the joke.”

When the Class Time Came

She eased off me with a hiss and a laugh she tried to swallow. Palazzo pulled up, clumsy. The kurta dropped over her hips and immediately showed a darker patch where oil had marked the peach. She saw it, swore, and twisted the cloth so the stain sat under her arm.

In the bathroom she washed her hands, not a ceremony, just enough not to smell like the kitchen jar. The bindi got pressed back to the center of her forehead with a wet finger. Hair went up again, messier, clip slightly crooked. She looked like a woman who had hurried, which was true, and like a woman who had been fucked open, which she did not bother hiding from me.

“If anyone asks why I am late, the bus never came,” she said. “That lie is older than both of us.”

I zipped my trousers and leaned in the bathroom doorway. She met my eyes in the mirror, then looked away first, not from shame, from the practical problem of walking.

“Sameer will be home after ten. You will be on the balcony with your phone like a good devar. I will be the bhabhi who went to paint marigolds. That is the whole arrangement.”

“And this?”

“This already happened. Don’t decorate it.”

She crossed the living room, collected the second sandal, and winced when she bent. The wince turned into a private smile she did not offer me. At the door she paused with her hand on the latch, the same pose as twenty minutes earlier, except now her stance was narrower and she kept her weight on the left foot.

“Next Thursday I am leaving on time,” she said. “Do not test that unless I start it.”

Then she did the ordinary thing. She stepped into the corridor, let the door fall shut, and walked to the lift with a shortened stride, one palm flat against the small of her back as if she were only stretching after sitting too long. The lift bell rang. She did not look over her shoulder. From the peephole I watched her tug the kurta down over her hips just before the metal doors opened, and that was the whole consequence, carried away on a Thursday that still had painting in it.

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