The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the narrow corridor of the apartment complex, the air thick with the scent of damp earth from the monsoon rains earlier that week. Ranjan adjusted the strap of his backpack, his fingers fumbling slightly with the keys as he unlocked the rusted brass lock of his 1 BHK flat. The metal groaned under his touch, a sound he had grown accustomed to in the three months since he'd moved in—his first taste of independence after leaving his parents' home in the suburbs. His mind was still half-lost in the morning's lecture on thermodynamics, the equations scribbled in his notebook burning behind his eyelids, when a soft, melodic voice cut through his thoughts.
"You're Ranjan, right?"
He froze. The voice belonged to the woman from two days ago—the one who had moved in next door with her husband, Mr. Das. The one whose curious, dark-brown eyes had lingered on him a second too long when they'd first met, her gaze dropping just low enough to notice the way his thin cotton pants had tented embarrassingly under her scrutiny. Ranjan had bolted inside his flat that day, his face burning, convinced she'd seen everything.
And now here she was, leaning against her doorframe, one bare foot resting atop the other, her toes painted a glossy shade of pink that glinted under the corridor's flickering tube light. She wore a simple cotton saree, the pale blue fabric clinging to the soft curves of her hips, the pallu draped loosely over one shoulder, revealing the smooth, golden skin of her collarbone. Her hair, still damp from a recent wash, coiled in thick, dark waves down her back, the scent of jasmine oil wafting toward him.
"I'm your new neighbor," she said, her lips curling into a smile that made his stomach clench. "Why don't you come in for a cup of tea?"
Ranjan's throat went dry. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Y-yeah, I'm Ranjan," he stammered, avoiding her eyes. "Nice to meet you. Um… is it okay if I come?"
Her laugh was warm, rich, the kind of sound that made his skin prickle. "Of course, beta. Come, come." She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter, and Ranjan hesitated only a second before following, his sneakers scuffing against the polished marble floor of her flat.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he was struck by how different her home was from his own sparse, functional space. The walls were adorned with framed paintings of Bengali landscapes, the air thick with the sweet, heavy perfume of fresh flowers—roses, marigolds, orchids—arranged in vases on every available surface. "My husband buys me flowers every day," she murmured, catching his gaze as he stared at a particularly lush bouquet of red roses on the center table. "Says it's the only way he knows how to make me smile."
Ranjan swallowed hard. "They're beautiful," he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
"I'm Rekha, by the way." She extended her hand, and when he took it, her fingers were soft, warm, her palm surprisingly smooth against his calloused skin. It was the first time he'd ever touched a woman who wasn't his mother, and the realization sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He pulled his hand back too quickly, his face flaming.
Rekha's smile deepened, as if she could read his thoughts. "Sit, Ranjan. I'll bring the tea."
He perched on the edge of the sofa, his backpack clutched tightly in his lap, his knees pressed together in a futile attempt to hide the growing bulge in his pants. The flat was immaculate, the kind of tidy that came from meticulous care—no dust on the shelves, no stray hairs on the cushions, just the faint, lingering scent of incense and something else, something musky and distinctly female. His gaze wandered, taking in the framed wedding photos on the wall, the way Rekha's saree had ridden up slightly as she walked, exposing the delicate curve of her ankle.
When she returned, Ranjan's breath hitched.
The saree was gone. In its place, she wore a thin, red nightie, the silky fabric clinging to her body, outlining the generous swell of her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, the flare of her hips. The nightie ended mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare, the same glossy pink polish on her toes now matching the flush creeping up her cheeks. She set the tray of tea and snacks on the table, her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.
"You… changed," Ranjan blurted, his voice thick.
Rekha tilted her head, feigning innocence. "It was hot. Do I look bad?"
"N-no! You look…" His gaze dropped to the valley between her breasts, the way the fabric strained against her nipples. "Beautiful."
She laughed again, the sound low and knowing, as she settled onto the sofa beside him, close enough that her thigh brushed against his. "Thank you, Ranjan." Her fingers grazed his wrist as she handed him a cup of tea, her touch lingering. "So, tell me about yourself. What do you study?"
He answered automatically, his mind racing, his body hyper-aware of every shift of her body, every breath she took. He told her about engineering, about his dreams of building something important, about his parents back home. She listened, nodding, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her knee, her nightie riding up just enough to tease him with the shadow between her thighs.
"And what about you, aunty—" He cut himself off abruptly, his face burning. "I mean, Rekha-ji?"
Her expression darkened for a fraction of a second. "Don't call me aunty," she said, her voice sharp. "I'm only twenty-nine, Ranjan. Do I look that old to you?"
"N-no! I just—"
She didn't let him finish. One moment, she was beside him, the next, her hand was on his cheek, her thumb brushing his lower lip. "You're a good boy," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. "But you don't have to be so nervous around me."
Before he could process what was happening, her lips were on his.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, demanding, her mouth parting against his, her tongue sliding between his lips with a confidence that left him dizzy. Ranjan made a choked sound, his hands flying up to grip her shoulders, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her arms. She tasted like tea and something sweeter, something forbidden, and when she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark with desire.
"Do you have a girlfriend, Ranjan?" she whispered, her fingers trailing down his chest, over the rigid outline of his erection.
"N-no," he gasped.
"Good." She stood, her nightie slipping off one shoulder as she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. The red lace fell away, revealing her breasts—full, heavy, the nipples dark and already hard. Ranjan's cock throbbed painfully, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"Don't hide it," Rekha purred, her gaze dropping to his lap. "Let me see."
His protest died in his throat as she swung one leg over his lap, straddling him, the heat of her body seeping through the thin fabric of her panties. Her feet, still adorned with those glossy pink toes, pressed against the sofa on either side of his hips, her arches flexing as she ground down against him. Ranjan groaned, his hands flying to her waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there.
Then her foot was on him, the sole pressing against the bulge in his pants, her toes curling as she rubbed slow, deliberate circles over his cock. "Such a big boy," she murmured, her voice husky. "Have you ever been with a woman, Ranjan?"
He shook his head, his vision swimming.
She smirked. "I'll be gentle."
Her fingers worked at his belt, the zipper of his pants, and then—oh god—her hand was inside his underwear, wrapping around his shaft. Ranjan bucked into her touch, a broken sound tearing from his throat as she stroked him, her thumb swiping over the slick head.
But then, just as suddenly, he was on his feet, his cock bobbing obscenely between them, his chest heaving. "I—I can't," he stammered, his voice raw. "I'm not ready."
Rekha's face flushed, her lips parting in surprise. "What? Ranjan, I—"
"I'm sorry," he choked out, snatching his pants up and fumbling into them, his erection still painfully hard. "I just… I can't."
And then he was running, bolting out the door, leaving Rekha standing there, her nightie still half-open, her body throbbing with unspent need.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, she let out a shaky breath, her fingers drifting down between her legs. The fabric of her panties was already damp, her clit swollen and aching. She sank onto the sofa, her thighs spreading, her fingers working in slow, deliberate circles.
"Stupid boy," she whispered, her hips lifting into her touch as she imagined his cock inside her, his inexperienced hands gripping her hips.
She came with a muffled cry, her body shuddering, her toes curling against the cushions—all while Ranjan, just beyond the thin wall, pressed his forehead against his own door, his cock still rock-hard in his grip, his mind a whirlwind of guilt and desire.
And Rekha?
She was far from done with him.