I never thought I’d do this. I never thought I’d write this. But the memory burns in me, even now, making my hands tremble and my breath quicken as I type.

It was a warm July evening when my husband invited his friend Ravi over. I’d seen Ravi at a couple of weddings before — tall, confident, with that naughty smile that made women laugh and men nervous. He was nothing like my husband, who was quiet, serious, always on his phone or reading.

I don’t know why I decided to wear the red saree that night. Maybe I knew already. Maybe some part of me wanted to be noticed.

When Ravi arrived, my husband barely looked at me, but Ravi? Oh, he saw everything. His eyes followed me around the room as I poured drinks, as I set plates. Every time our eyes met, my stomach tightened.

At dinner, he sat across from me. The first time his knee touched mine under the table, I thought it was an accident. The second time, I knew it wasn’t.

When my husband left the table to get more whiskey, Ravi leaned forward, his lips so close to my ear I could feel the heat of his breath.

"You look delicious tonight, bhabhi," he whispered, and his knee pressed harder into mine.

I felt my cheeks flush, my pulse hammering in my ears. When my husband returned, I tried to focus on the food, but Ravi kept brushing his knee against me, slow, deliberate, and I couldn’t stop him.

Later, when my husband went to bed early, feeling tired from work, Ravi followed me into the kitchen.

"You want me, don’t you?" he murmured, his fingers tracing the bare skin of my back.

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Good girl," he said, and then he took my hand and led me quietly into the bedroom.

Once the door was closed, his hands were everywhere. He pulled me close, kissed me hard, and I felt my saree unraveling under his fingers.

"You’ve been teasing me all night," he growled softly. "Now I’m going to taste you properly."

His hands slid under my blouse, finding my breasts, squeezing them as his lips moved to my neck.

"So soft… so perfect," he murmured, his thumbs teasing my nipples until they hardened.

I gasped as he lifted me and laid me on the bed, his body heavy and warm against mine.

"Look at you… already wet for me."

He knelt between my legs, pulled my saree higher, and pressed his mouth to my inner thigh.

"Bhabhi, you smell so sweet."

When his tongue finally touched me, I cried out, biting my hand to keep quiet. He licked me slowly, deeply, murmuring dirty words into me, telling me how good I tasted, how tight I felt when his fingers slid inside.

"You’re mine tonight," he whispered, and I nodded, lost in the feeling.

He undressed, and when I saw him — hard, thick, ready — my breath caught.

"Open your legs wider for me," he said, and I obeyed.

He entered me slowly, inch by inch, groaning as he filled me completely. Then he began to move, harder, faster, each thrust making me gasp and writhe beneath him.

"Such a naughty bhabhi… taking her husband’s friend like this…"

His words made me hotter, and soon I was begging him not to stop.

We changed positions — he lifted my legs over his shoulders, then took me from behind, my face pressed into the pillow as he pounded me harder.

"You feel so good… so fucking good," he growled, his fingers digging into my hips.

When I finally came, it was like a wave crashing over me — my body shaking, my mind blank with pleasure. But he didn’t stop. He kept going, pushing me higher and higher until I came again, crying his name into the pillow.

After what felt like hours, we collapsed together, sweaty and breathless.

He kissed me softly then, his hands gentle now, and whispered: "You’ll think about this every time you see me, won’t you?"

And he was right. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about that night.