Me With My Bangali Labour

I never thought I would be the kind of woman who kept secrets—especially not ones that could burn through the walls of her home.

My name is Ammeera. I live in a quiet corner of Malappuram in a newly built house. My husband works in the Gulf and visits once a year—twice, if I'm lucky. Our daughter is 12, growing up fast. She spends her evenings at tuition classes, and I... I spend mine listening to the fan hum in the stillness, pretending I don’t miss the warmth of a man.

We moved into this house just a month ago. The housewarming was beautiful. Family, neighbors, laughter. Then he left again—my husband. Like always. Promises, kisses on the forehead, and silence packed into a suitcase.

After he left, there were still small things to finish—cleaning, touch-ups, fittings. The contractor sent a Bengali worker, Rafiq, who had been with the construction from the beginning. He was young—maybe 22. But built like a man—muscles taut from labor, skin bronzed from the Kerala sun, and eyes that didn’t know how to lie.

Everyone in the neighborhood trusted him. I did too. At first.

I had noticed him earlier, during construction. He often bathed behind the house, under the coconut trees. I never meant to stare, but once, I did. His towel was soaked, clinging low on his hips. The shape beneath it was... unmissable. I stood at the window, frozen, watching him like I was in a dream. Then he looked up—and our eyes met. I panicked and turned away. My heart beat louder than the ceiling fan that evening.

Two days later, while I was making tea, Rafiq walked into the kitchen. My daughter was at tuition. He asked for water. I turned to the fridge, gave him a glass. And just like that—his hands were on my waist, his lips on my neck. My body froze, but my soul melted for a moment. Then shame took over, and I pushed him back, slapped him. He left quietly. I didn’t sleep that night.

He didn’t come for two days.

When my husband called, I lied. Told him Rafiq hadn’t come. Later, I heard him messaging the boy directly. Rafiq replied saying he’d been sick and would return soon.

That night, I got a message from Rafiq: "Forgive me, didi. I couldn’t stop myself. I like you."
I stared at the message for a long time before replying: "It’s okay. You can come for work. I won’t tell anyone."
I told him maybe it was just his age. But inside, I felt something more.

We started talking more—about nothing and everything. I said I wanted to learn Hindi. It was a lie, really. I just wanted a reason to sit next to him. To watch him talk. To feel his eyes scanning my body when he thought I wasn’t looking.

I began changing how I moved. Brushing against him when I passed. Letting my saree drape lower. Watching him bathe again from the upstairs window. This time, I wanted him to catch me.

And he did.

That Saturday, while I made evening tea, he came again. From behind, arms wrapping around me like I belonged there. He kissed my neck again. This time, I didn’t stop him. I turned. I kissed him back. Deeply. Desperately. His hands roamed, and mine did too. When we finally broke apart, I whispered, "No more pan. No more smell. Come to me like a man."

I gave him money for a shave, a haircut, and to clean his teeth.

He returned that Monday, dressed in a new shirt, clean, scented, and glowing like he knew he was wanted. I opened the door. We didn’t speak. I locked it behind us and led him to my bedroom.

I had worn my satin nighty, the one that hugged my curves just right, the one that made me feel sexy and desirable. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm light over us. I turned to face him, my heart pounding in my chest. Rafiq's eyes were filled with desire, and he pulled me close, his lips meeting mine in a passionate kiss. I melted into him, my body pressing against his, feeling the hardness of his erection through his pants.

He quickly shed his clothes, his muscular body on full display. He was built like a god, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He pushed me gently onto the bed, his hands roaming over my body, his lips tracing a path down my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. He sucked my nipples, his teeth gently nipping at them, making me moan with pleasure. He slid down my body, his tongue tracing a path down to my pussy. He parted my folds, his tongue licking my clit, his fingers sliding into my wet channel. I moaned, my hips bucking against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair. He sucked and licked, his fingers moving in and out of me, driving me wild with desire.

He knew the art of sex, the art of foreplay. He took his time, his tongue and fingers exploring every inch of my pussy, making me moan and writhe with pleasure. He licked and sucked, his fingers sliding in and out of me, his thumb circling my clit. I was on the edge, my body trembling with anticipation. He knew just when to stop, just when to push me over the edge. He licked my pussy, his tongue delving into my channel, his fingers circling my clit. I came with a scream, my body convulsing as I released a gush of fluids.

He crawled up my body, his cock hard and ready. He slid into me, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. I wrapped my legs around him, my nails digging into his back. We moved together, our bodies in sync, our moans filling the room. The bed creaked under our weight, the sound of our flesh slapping together echoing in the silent house.

After he came, he didn't pull out immediately. Instead, he rolled onto his side, taking me with him, our bodies still connected. He kissed me deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth. I could taste myself on his lips, and it turned me on even more.

He slid out of me, but before I could protest, he pulled me into the shower. The warm water cascaded over our bodies, washing away the sweat and the remnants of our passion. He soap my body, his hands roaming over my curves, his lips finding mine in a passionate kiss. I returned the favor, my hands exploring his muscular body, my lips tracing a path down his neck, his chest, his abs. He groaned, his cock hardening again under my touch.

We stepped out of the shower, our bodies clean and refreshed. We dried each other off, our touches lingering, our kisses deep and passionate. We dressed quickly, our bodies still humming with desire.

We watched a Hindi movie, our bodies pressed together on the couch. He fed me popcorn, his fingers lingering on my lips, his eyes never leaving mine. I could feel his desire, his need, and it matched my own. We were like lovers, our connection deep and intense.

After the movie, he helped me wash the dishes. We stood side by side, our bodies brushing against each other, our hands lingering on each other's skin. I could feel his desire, his need, and it matched my own. We were like lovers, our connection deep and intense.

I prepared juice for him, the sweet scent filling the kitchen. We sat on the kitchen slab, our bodies pressed together, our lips meeting in a passionate kiss. He slid his hand up my thigh, his fingers finding my wet pussy. He rubbed my clit, his fingers sliding in and out of me, making me moan with pleasure. I unzipped his pants, my hand wrapping around his hard cock. He groaned, his hips bucking into my touch. We pleasured each other, our bodies moving in sync, our moans filling the kitchen.

Now, every time I hear footsteps on the gravel path, my heart races. Every day that he comes, I am not a lonely housewife—I am a woman, desired and worshipped. This... secret… this sin… became my salvation.

I don’t know how long it will last. But in this silence, between these walls, I have never felt more alive.