Seductive Bhabiji

Fantasizing about gorgeous woman had been a staple part of my existence right from secondary school days. Beauties elder to me, particularly married ones, seldom failed to turn me on. From teachers to neighbourhood aunts and from movie vamps to news readers, preferably those draped in sexy sarees, there was not a beauty that I had come across and not made love to in my sexceedingly passionate fantasies. Given my inert inhibitions however, little did I ever expect any of my fantasies to ever come true. That assessment notwithstanding, to my utmost delight, proved to be wrong in my first year of junior college. It was an incident that compelled me to give up fantasizing for sheer want of time from real love making. I helplessly surrendered to converting my passionate fantasies to true life sexperiences that proved to be far more sexciting than I had ever envisaged. 

It all began on a wet September evening, as I returned from college as usual at four in the afternoon. The weather was inclement and it was pouring like it had not all that season. What made matters gloomier for me was, being told by my father of visitors being expected in the house that evening. It essentially meant, I had to stay at home all evening in attendance to whoever these guests were, at the cost of my usual strolls in the neighbourhood where I could easily come across some beauty I could later fantasize about. All my hopes of the guests cancelling their visit due to the inclement weather were dashed on being told that those expected were none other than the Sharma’s, who I remembered being told earlier, were the new occupants of a bungalow a few blocks away from ours. Sharmaji aged 35, a good ten years younger to my father, happened to be the newly appointed general manager of the pharmaceutical company my father worked for. That apparently made him Dad’s immediate superior. 

No wonder Dad was particular about the arrangements made for that evening, but thankfully stopped short of insisting on me wearing formal clothes. I was in my usual soft cotton bermudas and a collared yellow T-shirt. Standing 5.11 I guess I looked pretty personable, even sexy if you like, in the outfit. Not that I cared about it till the doorbell rang at around 7.30. 

Expecting it to be the Sharma’s I opened the door to what I had least expected. While Sharmaji more or less fitted my perception of an average white collared executive, the fair-complexioned lady besides him, draped in a sky-blue saree was a truly sexiting bombshell, who I believed could easily give any of our Bollywood vamps a run for their money. Momentarily stunned by her beauty and the complex it gave me, I could only manage taking in her bewitching facial assets that were topped by sexually suggestive eyes and a winsome smile to match them, that could have seduced a whole battalion of Hercules’. Having lost my wits I would have been lost for words had Sharmaji not interrupted with his pleasantries. “How are you young man? I’m Manoj and this is my better half Smita”, he said. “Hallo sir, pleased to meet you” I uttered, before reluctantly doing a namaste to Smitaji, when I would have rather loved to grab Smitaji’s sex-oozing face there and then and plant a kiss on what I had gathered by then to be profoundly sensual lips. “Hi, You must be Rohan” and a nod, was her response to my namaste. The way my name sounded and the knowledge of it’s source had mesmerized me. Managing somehow, a “you are right Bhabiji”, I made way for the couple. Sharmaji entered followed by Smitaji who didn’t fail to give me a look that made me feel she had sensed what was on my mind. 

In the corridor, on our way to the drawing room, I could make out more of the sextress Smitaji undoubtedly was. She wore a sleeveless blouse that matched the saree, sexposing those lovely arms, which looked mindblowing from behind. Her waist long brownish-black silkish hair were let loose for the better part, but were tied in a cute veni only at the bottom. The way her hair swayed, and her buttocks moved from under her tightly worn saree at the rhythm of her pulsating high-heeled walk, was a sight out of this world. By this time I had already subconsciously resolved to take in as much of this sex-goddess as I could, to fantasize about her later.

My parents welcomed the guests in the drawing room and dad introduced mom to the couple. The Sharma’s made themselves comfortable on the three seater sofa with each occupying either corner. dad and mom took the chairs opposite them. I kept standing behind these chairs facing the Sharma’s. For what I could see from there, I could have kept standing right there for eternity. Smitaji’s light blue saree was of exceedingly diaphanous material. The transparency was a feast for my cupid eyes. The matching low-cut blouse treated me to a sumptuous exposure of the deep milky-white cleavage formed by those awesome globes. Just as I was trying to rob a glimpse of what I was sure would be lovely and inviting armpits, I heard Smitaji’s sexy voice again. “Why don’t you take a chair Rohan”, she inquired, gesturing sensually to the stool next to her. 

Almost out of servitude, I walked across and took the vacant stool next to her. Near enough to be stimulated by her perfume, it was the first time I was aware of the enormous bulge in my Bermuda’s formed by the hard-on this sextress had given me. It was then that Dad and Sharmaji left for the bar that was at the other end of drawing room. Dad had asked Smitaji what she would have and she had settled for a Gin-with-fresh-lime. Mom had excused herself to make a round of the kitchen. Even as my heart missed several beats at being alone with this sex-dynamite, it would be an understatement to say that I was uncomfortable. “Don’t you drink Rohan?” she enquired very softly, in a voice that oozed of sensuality. “Occasionally Bhabiji”, I said adding, “but never in the presence of my parents.” “Don’t you even flirt in their presence?” she whispered in my year, placing her tender hand on my thigh. Her palm partially covered my Bermudas and partially the bare part of my thigh, and was inches away from the hard-on she had caused. Her eyes fixed on my bulge she whispered again, “I sincerely empathise with your self restraint my dear”, adding, “Just joking Rohan, don’t take it otherwise”, and removing her hand from my thigh, seconds before Dad and Sharmaji returned with their drinks.

It was intriguing though, even annoying, that for a good half-an-hour after that Smitaji showed virtually no interest in speaking with me. I found it a better idea to rather be by myself in my bedroom and fantasize about this new found seductive sextress and do something about the hard-on she had caused, than keep listening to the mundane platitudes being indulged in the drawing-room. Having stolen a last good look at Smitaji I excused myself and left for my bedroom. Once in my den I switched on the PC and began documenting the enchantress I had just met. Barely had I typed, “My fair and bewitching Smitaji, should stand 5ft 5 without those bewitchingly elevating heels of hers....”, that I heard the heart-throbbing sound of those very heels outside my room. “May I come in?” asked the sex-goddess herself, even as she walked straight in without waiting for a reply. “What are you doing handsome?”, she asked as she rested one arm on the table and the other on my monitor. I had ample view now of her well shaved inviting arm-pits, as also a closer view of that enormous milky cleavage between those blouse-arrested twin-globes of love. Standing tall, Smitaji gave me a clear view of her yummy fat naval that was clearly visible through her transparent saree, that was indeed worn revealingly low. A moment later her pallu slid, to give me a truly mouth-watering treat of her nipples from under her tight blouse.

I would have lost all my inhibitions that very moment had Dad not called me to fetch some soda. As I returned after helping Dad with the soda, I found Smitaji operating on my computer. To my relief she hadn’t found what I had just typed, but had found my photo-album all-right. She was going through the photo’s of actresses in wet sarees, that I had downloaded from the internet. “You shouldn’t be going through that bhabiji”, I protested. “How else would poor Bhabiji know what naughty Rohan is up to”, she said, suddenly adding “wait a minute, could you drop me at my place? You certainly could on that bike of yours, that I’ve seen you on so many times from the day we have shifted here.” “But it’s still pouring heavily”, I said half-heartedly, palpably aware of the fascinating prospect of being alone with this sex-bomb. “That’s the idea baby”, she said, as she walked back to the drawing-room. From what I could hear her say as I fetched my bike key’s, I gathered, she had told Sharmaji she wasn’t feeling well and would be dropped home by me, but had insisted on him carrying on and enjoying himself. 

We were completely drenched even before we hit the road. But Smitaji surely knew how to make herself comfortable on a bike. Sitting close enough for her saree-clad wetness to cause pleasurable spasms up my spine, she rested her hand on my fully drenched Burmuda. This time her palm was almost on my hard-on love-pole that was at it’s zenith. I wondered whether this sex-Goddess even had an iota of an idea of the pleasure she was bestowing on a mere mortal. I tried not to avoid a single ditch on the short road to her place. Going through one of them she virtually held my love-pole over my Bermuda’s, only to slowly release it with the sexapology, “Sorry Rohan, did your Bhabi hurt you?” “No Bhabiji, not at all, It’s my pleasure.....riding you home.....that is”, I said, as I rode into their porch. “Your a big liar Rohan, come in baby”, she said, as she alighted from the bike, after withdrawing her hand from over my Bermudas ever so slowly stimulating muscles in my hip and back that I wasn’t even aware existed.

Walking inside the Sharma home I was sexcited with the plausible prospect of at least having some very sensual time with this mindblowingly seductive Bhabi, if not actual sex. Following Smitaji into their well-lit drawing room, I got too see the sextreemly sexciting vision that the darkness and the rains outside had hitherto deprived me of. Watching Smitaji’s fully drenched saree clung to her voluptuous body made my mind go crazy. 

Her lovely buttocks bouncing in tune to her walk looked eternal, with the wet blue saree clinging to them sexposing their divinity. I had almost lost my self imposed restraint and was about grab for Smitaji from behind, when she turned abruptly asking “I hope you don’t have any inhibitions drinking with your Bhabi?” and without waiting for a response, coming very close to me, placing both her arms on my shoulders, asked in a very soft and husky whisper, “What can Bhabi offer this Prince?” there was a pause as I gathered my wits and the guts, before I placed both my hands on Smitaji’s soft cheek’s, and asked back, “Will you give me what I want Bhabiji?”, “No jokes Rohan”, she said, withdrawing her hands of my shoulders as also very slowly removing my hands of her cheeks. Holding both my hands in hers she started caressing them before ending the short pause by, “Scotch or Gin, tell me, I’m wet, I’m shivering, I need a drink quickly”, she insisted. “Scotch’ll be great”, I said, being apprehensive at what this bewitching beauty had in mind. Was she interested in me and was having a good time teasing me, or was it just her free nature? If the former were to be just a figment of my imagination, and the latter the truth, I would be spelling trouble for Dad by taking any further sexual initiative with this lady, I thought. She had left for the adjoining room saying, “Please sit here” directing towards the sofa” adding, “I’ll give you what you want baby.”