Desi Affair in Green Saree: My First Love with a Married Tenant
In the heart of Bangalore, a young man’s innocent visits turn into something more with his stunning married bhabhi next door. Dressed in a silk green saree, she opens up about her pain and desires — leading to a deeply sensual, emotionally charged experience that changes them both forever.
I’m Veeresh, 35 now, a married man and a father, Working in a well know company, settled in US. But some memories never fade—especially the ones that change you forever.
This is a real incident from my past… something I’ve never shared until now. It happened when I was completed my graduation—when I unknowingly crossed the invisible line between boyhood and manhood.
We lived in a two-story house in Bangalore—two bedrooms on each floor. My father worked in Delhi for a central government department, while my mother was a typical Kannada homemaker—simple, caring, and deeply rooted in values. My elder brother was off at college, and most of the time, it was just Mom and me at home.
When the upstairs kitchen was completed, my parents decided to rent the top floor to a family. Soon, a family moved in—a husband, wife, and their young daughter, who was in 4th standard. The husband worked at a bank, and the wife stayed home. The staircase hadn’t yet been built outside, so the only way to access their floor was through our house. My father had planned to close the internal passage once the outer stairs were done, but that never happened.
In just two months, both families grew close. The woman upstairs became more than just a tenant—she was like a cheerful older sister to me. She had a warm, radiant smile, always dressed in comfortable nighties at home. Her figure was unforgettable—voluptuous, elegant, and glowing with fair skin. I was lean then, with an athletic body from playing sports. Just a quiet, reserved boy, still untouched by worldly feelings.
But everything changed one quiet afternoon.
My mom had made curry and asked me to take a bowl upstairs. When I went up, no one answered. I left the bowl on the dining table—but then I heard water running. The bathroom door was slightly open. My heart beat faster. The light was on, and the sound of bathing echoed softly. A strange curiosity pulled me closer. I peeked.
She was inside—completely nude.
Her back glistened under the running water, her wet hair clinging to her pale skin. Drops ran down her curves in slow, hypnotic motion. She turned slightly, and for a second, I caught sight of her breast—large, soft, with a deep brown areola that sent a strange warmth racing through my chest.
That moment... changed everything.
I ran back down, my heart thudding in panic and desire. I shut my door and touched myself for the first time, imagining her. It wasn’t dirty—it felt like I had just stepped into a new world. One that was intoxicating.
From that day on, I was drawn to her in ways I couldn’t explain.
Her smile, her laughter, her scent—it lingered. She treated me like the boy I used to be, but I had begun seeing her as a woman. Beautiful, sensual, forbidden.
One day, they bought a heavy coat. Her husband was carrying it up the stairs, and I was behind to help. It was too heavy, and she came to support me from behind. Her body pressed fully against my back—soft, warm, breathless. Her breasts were firm and heavy against me, her breath on my neck. We both felt it. That strange, electric silence. When we reached the top, we locked eyes for a moment. She smiled, handed me a towel to wipe the sweat, and brought me juice. There was something different in her eyes that day. We weren’t just tenant and boy anymore.
From then on, I started noticing everything. When she bent while mopping, her blouse gave glimpses of her deep cleavage. She never adjusted it. Was she unaware? Or was she allowing me those glimpses?
I don’t know when I started looking forward to hearing her bathe. I would sit silently, hoping the door would be slightly open again—but it never was.
One afternoon changed everything again.
My mother was asleep. I knew she was alone upstairs. My heart raced with a wild mix of nervousness and excitement. I tiptoed upstairs. Her bedroom door was open. She was lying on the bed—her saree draped aside, wearing only a maroon velvet blouse and skirt. Her stomach, her navel, her cleavage—everything was visible.
She had just bathed—her skin still glowing, her blouse damp. Her scent hit me again, soft jasmine and sandalwood, mixed with something... womanly. I couldn’t help myself. I touched her thighs gently, then her stomach. Her skin was warm, soft like silk.
Suddenly she moved.
I panicked and dove under the coat, but it made a noise. She screamed. My mom came running. I was caught. I had never seen such disappointment on her face. I wanted to vanish. To disappear.
She apologized to the woman, scolded me harshly, and decided to close the internal stairs access. I felt like dying. I didn’t eat. I stayed in my room, numb with guilt. I had never felt this low in my life.
But then... something unexpected happened.
That night, the woman came downstairs.
She asked my mother if she could speak to me alone. She said she didn’t tell her husband. She didn't want my father to know either. She said she would handle it.
She knocked softly on my door. I opened it, and she stepped in, locking it behind her.
She sat next to me and said softly, "Why haven’t you eaten, Veeresh?" I couldn’t look at her. I said sorry. Again and again.
She gently took my hand. “No more sorries,” she said. “I understand. At your age... I’ve had feelings too. We’re human.”
She looked into my eyes.
“I only screamed because I got scared. If I had known it was you... I wouldn’t have,” she whispered.
Her words melted me.
Then, she did something I will never forget. She leaned forward and kissed me—soft, tender, slow. A kiss that didn’t feel wrong... it felt like understanding. She whispered in my ear, “Next time, don’t hide. I won’t scream.”
She walked out and told my mom that everything was fine, that I was a good boy, and that this chapter was over. My mom relaxed, and life slowly moved on.
But that kiss… her warmth… her unspoken invitation…
I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt her lips again. Her scent still lingered on my shirt.
A whole week passed, and nothing more happened.
But everything had changed.
There were new moments now.
Our eyes would meet, and we’d both look away—then smile gently.
She’d find excuses to come down and talk to my mom, but her eyes always searched for me.
When I crossed her upstairs, she’d give me a glance that lasted a second longer than it should.
And then… two days later, something unexpected happened.
That evening, she came downstairs and spoke to my mom.
She said she needed to visit an institute, about 10 km away, but didn’t want to go alone.
They had a small Alto car, and she wasn't confident driving alone. She asked my mom if she could accompany her.
But that day, my uncle had come from abroad, and my mom had already planned to go visit my grandparents for the night.
Mom looked at me and smiled. “If you’re okay, Veeresh will go with you,” she said casually.
My heart skipped a beat.
Her eyes sparkled. “Yes, perfect!” she said.
I could tell she was secretly happy.
She went upstairs to change.
When she came back down…
She took my breath away.
She was wearing a green silk saree, with soft golden borders, wrapped neatly yet sensually over her curves.
Her waist was bare. A thin gold chain shimmered around her belly. Her blouse fit perfectly—low at the back, hugging her breasts gently in front. Her hair was tied, but a few strands fell on her face. She wore light kajal and soft perfume. I froze.
I quickly changed into a decent shirt and jeans.
We said goodbye to Mom, who would leave later. She told me she'd be staying overnight at Grandpa’s and kept the house key under the welcome mat.
I sat in the front seat beside her. She started the car—nervous, her hands tight on the steering wheel.
It was silent for a few minutes.
Then suddenly, she smiled and said, “So… the naughty boy who had the guts to sneak into my room can’t even speak now?”
I laughed shyly. “I was scared,” I said.
She looked at me sideways. “You didn’t come again… I waited the whole week.”
“I couldn’t,” I admitted. “Mom was always around. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to create more problems.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “So… you want me?”
I nodded, then looked at her. “Yes. From the day I saw you bathing…”
She glanced at me sharply, eyes wide.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said quickly. “That day… I brought the curry, and… I saw you. That image… it never left me.”
She didn’t speak for a minute.
Then she asked, “So… it’s just physical, Veeresh?”
I shook my head. “Maybe it started that way. But now… I feel something deeper. I think about you all the time. I don’t want anyone else.”
She was quiet again.
Then she smiled, more gently this time. “You’re very young… You could easily get a girl your age.”
“I don’t want a girl. I want you. You’re beautiful, confident, and real.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Pretty boy, you know what I liked most about you?”
I looked at her.
“When your mom scolded and hit you that day… just for liking me… I felt something strange in my chest. I felt bad for you. I also felt… seen. Desired. Maybe I needed that.”
I touched her hand gently. She didn’t pull away.
She kept her eyes on the road but said playfully, “Don’t distract me. I’m already bad at driving.”
I smiled. “I’m just holding your hand. Nothing more.”
She looked at me and whispered, “Even that… is making me lose control.”
I squeezed her hand slightly.
She didn’t let go.
The road stretched ahead—quiet, calm, and full of promises neither of us dared say out loud. But something had already shifted.
We weren’t just boy and woman anymore.
We were two souls standing at the edge of something dangerous… and beautiful.
The city streets buzzed as we neared the office. I glanced at her and asked softly, “Where are we going?”
She looked a little lost in thought. “It’s hard to find the place,” she replied. “But we’re almost there.”
When we parked, she finally shared what had been weighing on her mind. “I’ve completed my MCA, but after marriage and having my daughter, I never got to work. Now she’s started nursery… I want to start my career.” Her voice trembled slightly.
I noticed her eyes becoming moist as she spoke about her husband. “He works at a bank. We have enough, but… he’s very strict with money. Even when I need new clothes, I still depend on my parents.” Her words hung heavy in the air.
I gently reassured her. “You’ll do great. You’re smart. You just need a chance.”
We walked together into the building, and she enquired about programming courses. A counselor guided her through the details—Java, duration, placements, fees. She seemed hopeful for the first time that day. She paid the initial fee and confirmed she’d join from Monday.
Outside, under a tree near a small juice shop, we sat on an old bench with two glasses of fresh juice. The breeze gently played with the ends of her saree. She turned to me, her voice softer now, “You know, you should join too. You’ve finished graduation. Waiting for results doesn’t mean you stop learning.”
She smiled, “If you join too… we can come together.”
That sentence lingered in the air, carrying more than just its literal meaning.
“I’ll ask mom,” I said.
“She’ll agree,” she nodded. “We’ll come together, not by car though—maybe by bus. Driving daily is tough for me.”
We started back to home.
Her words carried a hidden sadness. I remembered a week ago, seeing her quietly wiping away tears. “Why were you crying that day?” I asked gently.
She looked away. “I asked to join a course. He refused. He said we don’t need two people working. But when my father offered to pay, he agreed… reluctantly.”
There was a long pause. I placed my hand gently on her thigh—not in lust, but as a silent gesture of comfort. She didn’t move away. Instead, she gave a half-smile. “I’m still not good at driving,” she said, breaking the tension.
We both laughed. I brought up the bathroom incident again—how I had accidentally seen her when she had forgotten to lock the door, and she had screamed. She playfully hit my arm. “You naughty boy. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
But then her tone changed.
“You know,” she began slowly, “one night I woke up for water and saw the TV light on downstairs. I came quietly to check… It was you, watching something… private.”
I froze. “I— I’m sorry,” I stammered, embarrassed.
She giggled. “Don’t worry. I watched for a few minutes too. Couldn’t sleep that night.”
There was something vulnerable about that confession, something unspoken, yet understood.
We drove back in silence for a while, words unnecessary. When we reached home, I found the key under the mat. Mom had already left.
We stepped inside. She began walking up the stairs. I followed her inside. She walked up the stairs, adjusting her green saree at the waist, her hair loosely tied into a messy bun. Her soft back was partially visible through the thin blouse. A small part of her navel peeked through the folds of her pallu, which swayed with her steps. Her body moved with the quiet elegance of a woman who never intended to seduce, but somehow always did.
I couldn’t stop staring.
A sudden impulse took over. I reached out and gently grabbed her from behind.
She paused.
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, feeling her body close to mine. My hands rested on her waist, and her warmth seeped through the soft fabric of her saree.
She didn’t resist.
She slowly turned around to face me.
Our eyes met, searching. In that silent gaze, everything changed. Her eyes held something unspoken—vulnerability, yearning, trust.
I leaned in. She closed her eyes.
Our lips met slowly, unsure at first… then melting into each other with a hunger we both had kept buried. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her into me. Her arms reached up to rest around my shoulders, and we kissed — deeply, with a year’s worth of unshed desire. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow, electric… each second carving itself into memory.
She gasped softly into my mouth as our bodies pressed closer. Her chest heaved with every breath. I held her tighter.
She whispered my name.
We stood there for minutes, simply holding each other, lost in that moment.
As I reached for her pallu, I paused and looked into her eyes — one last chance for her to stop me.
She didn’t.
She gently removed the pin on her shoulder and let the green pallu fall.
Underneath, her fair skin glowed in the warm yellow light of the stairway. Her blouse was a deep green, but thin — her black bra slightly visible beneath it. I had seen glimpses of her body before — accidental, stolen — but nothing compared to this moment.
I undid the hooks of her blouse carefully, one by one. Her breathing grew shallow.
Her bra was plain black cotton — modest, but on her, it looked divine. I kissed her slowly on her chest, just above the curve of her breasts. She shivered. Her fingers ran through my hair, trembling slightly.
Her hands reached for my shirt and pulled me closer. Our bodies touched fully now, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
I whispered in her ear, “You’re beautiful…”
She leaned her head on my shoulder, eyes still closed, and whispered, “No one has said that in years…”
I helped her out of the blouse, then the saree that fell to the ground in soft folds. She stood before me, vulnerable, yet powerful — a woman rediscovering her body not through shame, but desire.
I kissed every inch slowly — her shoulders, her collarbone, the space between her breasts. Her skin was soft, her body warm and welcoming.
She wasn’t a fantasy anymore. She was real. And she wanted to be seen, touched, loved.
The air was still, warm, and heavy with the moment we had just shared — lips still tingling, hearts still pounding, and emotions floating in a delicate, untamed dance.
She looked at me, eyes tender yet bold, and whispered, "Come..."
We walked, quietly and naturally, into the bedroom — her room — where everything carried her scent, her presence, her softness. The bed was neatly made, sunlight slipping through half-closed curtains painting golden patterns on the bedsheet.
I helped her unhook the black bra she wore, the last barrier over her bare self. It slipped off her shoulders gracefully, revealing the soft curve of her breasts — full, warm, and natural. Her dark brown nipples, already hardened, stood in quiet invitation. I paused, just looking at her for a moment — not as an object of desire, but as a woman unfolding herself, baring her vulnerability to me.
Slowly, I reached out with both hands, cupping her breasts with the tenderness they deserved. They felt soft and heavy in my palms, and the heat of her skin pulsed against mine. My thumbs brushed lightly across her nipples — teasing, circling, coaxing little gasps from her lips.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head slightly back, her chest rising and falling with each touch. I leaned in, kissing one breast, then the other — letting my tongue flick lightly over her sensitive nipples. She shivered, her fingers digging lightly into my shoulders.
I stayed there — licking, kissing, sucking gently — switching sides, listening to every breath she took, every sigh she released. Her hands moved into my hair, holding me close, her body slowly giving in to the sensations. I could feel her melting, softening, surrendering.
I trailed kisses downward, slowly — across her ribcage, her stomach — until I reached her navel. I kissed it, then gently traced slow, warm circles with my tongue, letting her feel my presence on every inch of her skin. She trembled beneath me, breathing faster, whispering my name.
Then I moved lower, reaching to unfasten her skirt.
But just as my fingers found the hook, she gently held my hand — stopping me.
She looked into my eyes, a soft flush on her cheeks, and whispered, “I’m… on my period. There might be blood…”
There was hesitation in her voice, a touch of vulnerability she rarely showed.
I paused immediately, holding her hand gently in mine. “That’s okay,” I said softly.
She smiled and brushed her fingers along my cheek. “We’ll have that moment… just not today. Let it be beautiful when it happens.”
I nodded. “I can wait. What we have… is already beautiful.”
She looked relieved — comforted even — and leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on my lips. It was slow, full of emotion. A kiss that said more than words ever could. I could feel her gratitude in that kiss… her trust.
“I still want to feel you,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Just be close.”
She kissed me again, then reached for my shirt. Her fingers moved slowly, unbuttoning it one by one. I stood still, letting her explore me — her hands warm, her breath shallow, brushing against my neck as she leaned in. She kissed the center of my chest and ran her lips along my collarbone, her breath sending goosebumps through me.
She pulled me down to the bed, and I followed willingly. She opened my jeans, slowly — her eyes watching mine the entire time. When she reached my brief, she hesitated for just a second — then touched me over it, gently, reverently. I was already fully hard, and the heat between us was palpable.
She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, as her fingers reached the waistband of my brief.
Slowly, carefully, she slipped it down, her gaze never leaving mine. The tension between us pulsed like electricity — not rushed, not frantic, just deep and deliberate.
As I stood there, exposed before her, there was no awkwardness — only the warmth of being seen. Completely. She looked at me, not just my body, but my soul, and I felt myself melt under her gaze.
Her hand reached forward, tentative at first, as if memorizing every contour with reverence. Her fingers curled around me — warm, soft, firm — her touch feather-light but impossibly thrilling.
She began to move, slowly. Her hand sliding upward with a gentle squeeze, then gliding back down. Again. And again. Each stroke igniting something inside me. Something powerful. Something personal.
Her touch wasn’t hurried or mechanical — it was as if she was learning me, savoring every response, every breath I took, every subtle shift in my body. And I, helpless in her hands, could only let her lead.
Then, she leaned in, brushing her lips along the tip, not kissing fully yet — just teasing, letting her warm breath do its magic. I shivered.
Another kiss. Then another. Tender. Purposeful. Her lips soft and warm, sending ripples through my spine.
I looked down at her — hair falling slightly over her cheek, lips parted just enough, her hand still rhythmically gliding over me. When our eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world slipped away. We weren’t just two people — we were completely entangled in this quiet storm of intimacy.
Then, without a word, she let her lips part and slowly took me into her mouth.
It was gentle. Almost sacred. Her tongue moved with delicate pressure, exploring, tasting, worshipping. There was no rush. Just connection — deep, aching, soulful.
She moved with grace — one hand around me, the other resting lightly on my thigh for balance. Her rhythm was steady, sensual, caring. She watched me with half-lidded eyes, catching every gasp, every tightening of my muscles, every breath I held.
I reached down, brushing her hair back behind her ear, my fingers trembling as I whispered her name.
She responded by going deeper, swirling her tongue gently, taking her time like she wanted me to feel everything — not just the pleasure, but the intimacy of it. The closeness. The trust.
As I neared the edge, I tried to warn her, but she only looked up, eyes shimmering, and kept going — steady and sure, holding me through it like I was something precious.
When I finally let go, she didn’t flinch. She stayed there, still and serene, accepting every part of me like it belonged to her — and maybe, in that moment, it did.
She gently pulled back, her lips red and glistening, and smiled.
With a quiet grace, she reached for her bra, now lying beside us, and used it to softly clean me — her touch still tender, still full of care. She ran her fingers along the warmth, feeling the stickiness, then looked at me again — eyes twinkling with affection.
No words were needed.
She leaned in, kissed me softly on the lips — slow and deep. I could taste myself on her tongue, but more than that, I could taste something rare: devotion.
Then she lay down beside me, pulling the sheet over us, our bodies still warm and bare beneath it. I turned to her. She turned to me. And in that stillness, everything made sense.
Her hand rested on my chest, and her leg draped softly over mine. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.
She looked into my eyes and asked, barely above a whisper, “Did you like it?”
I let out a breath of a laugh — not because it was funny, but because I was full. Full of her.
I pulled her closer, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “You’re mine. Always.”
Her eyes closed, and she smiled — not the polite smile people wear during the day, but one that came from deep within, from the part of her soul that knew it was wanted.
We stayed like that, limbs tangled, warmth shared, her head rising and falling gently with the rhythm of my breath. And in that moment, I felt a peace I had never known. Not even with my wife. This wasn’t just intimacy. It was belonging.
Time slipped by. At 2:30, the spell of stillness began to break.
She stirred, brushing her lips over my chest before rising slowly. Her body glowed in the soft daylight, still radiant from everything we shared. She turned to me, wrapped in the sheet, and smiled shyly.
“I’ll freshen up and start lunch,” she said.
I nodded, still in a daze, and watched her leave the room — her silhouette soft, her steps light.
A few minutes later, I walked upstairs, freshly showered, the scent of her still clinging to my skin.
She was in the kitchen, dressed in a simple cotton nighty, hair tied in a loose bun, humming something low and melodic. The domesticity of it made my chest ache — not from lust, but from longing.
I stepped behind her quietly, wrapped my arms around her waist, and rested my chin on her shoulder.
She gasped softly, then melted into me, her hands finding mine.
I kissed the shell of her ear, breathed her in, and whispered, “I love you… I want you forever.”
She leaned back into me, her voice barely above a breath. “I’ll stay… until the day you ask me to go.”
My grip tightened. “I’ll never say that,” I promised.
That’s when I saw it — the thali, the sacred pendant from her wedding, still around her neck. A symbol of another life. Another man.
I brushed my fingers gently over it, then whispered, “Can I tie one for you someday? Not out of ritual… but from love?”
She turned to face me, eyes glistening — not with sorrow, but with the weight of feeling something pure.
“I’d be more than happy,” she said, voice cracking with emotion. “Just… not yet.”
I nodded, holding her close, forehead resting against hers.
And in that quiet kitchen, amidst soft nightwear and the scent of cumin and longing, we crossed a threshold — from desire to devotion.
From longing… to belonging.
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