These days, my mausa ji, Shamsher, was staying at our place. He was 42, tall at 5 feet 10 inches, with a body that could make any village wrestler jealous—broad chest, rock-hard shoulders, and a face that screamed Jat pride. His eyes had a naughty spark that always left me restless. He was put up in the rooftop room, my favorite hangout spot. I’m Bano, 24, wheatish complexion, long black hair, and a figure of 34-28-36 that looked killer in my tight kameez and panties. At 5 feet 4 inches, my round buttocks could stop any guy in his tracks. I loved spending time on the roof, where the cool breeze and starry nights made me feel wild and restless.

Mausa ji’s gaze was something else. It felt like he was undressing me with his eyes, seeing right through my clothes. I’d seen that lustful look in many men, but his had a certain edge, a raw hunger. I didn’t mind. What’s the worst he could do? Fuck me? Well, I had no problem with that. I just wanted him to make a move. I’d thought about giving in to his teasing, but decency always held me back.