Girl in heat : Husband my dear

Why people marry I wonder, to have sex it is. What will a horney girl do when husband is going out. First have him fuck then go out. (I am bad at writing rhymes

Supali woke up slowly, the Hyderabad morning sun filtering through the curtains of their small apartment in Hi-Tech City. At 21, she was still adjusting to married life, her body humming with a youthful heat that never seemed to fade. Her husband, Arjun, 28 and a senior officer in an oil and gas company, was already up, packing his suitcase for another offshore rotation—30 days this time. It was routine now, these departures, but each one left her aching in more ways than one.

Last night had been intense. They'd made love like it was their honeymoon all over again. Arjun had come home early, pulled her into the bedroom without a word, his hands rough from work but gentle on her skin. Supali remembered how he'd kissed her neck, whispering how much he'd miss her tight, eager body. She'd ridden him slowly at first, her long black hair cascading over her full breasts, grinding against him until he flipped her over and took her hard from behind. She'd come twice, moaning his name into the pillow, her nails digging into his back as he filled her completely.

Now, as he zipped up his bag in the living room, Supali slipped out of bed wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt. Her curves were soft and inviting—pert C-cup breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that swayed naturally when she walked. She padded over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

"Arjun... you're really leaving today?" she murmured, pressing her body against his back. She could feel the heat building between her thighs already, just from the closeness.

He turned, smiling down at her, his eyes lingering on the way the t-shirt rode up her thighs. "Baby, I have to. The flight's in three hours. But last night... God, you were incredible."

She blushed but pulled him closer, her hands sliding under his shirt. "It wasn't enough. Thirty days without you? I'll go crazy." Her voice was husky, full of that insatiable fire that had drawn him to her in the first place. As a quality engineer at the packaging firm in Gachibowli, she spent her days in crisp shirts and pants, focused and professional. But at home, with him, she was pure passion.

Arjun groaned softly, his hands cupping her ass, lifting the t-shirt to find she was bare underneath. "Supali, don't tempt me. I'll miss the flight."

"Then miss it," she teased, nipping at his earlobe. She dropped to her knees right there in the living room, her dark eyes looking up at him as she unbuckled his belt. "One more time. For the road."

He didn't stop her. How could he? Her mouth was warm and eager, taking him in deeply, her tongue swirling just the way he loved. She worked him with a rhythm born of their year together—slow, then fast, her hands stroking what her lips couldn't reach. Arjun threaded his fingers through her hair, thrusting gently as she moaned around him.

"Fuck, baby... you're so hot," he gasped.

She pulled back just long enough to whisper, "I want you inside me again."

He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the couch. Spreading her legs, he teased her wetness with his tip before sliding in deep. Supali arched, crying out as he filled her. They moved frantically—her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his back, urging him harder. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together, her breathless pleas.

"Arjun... yes... don't stop... I'm yours..."

He pounded into her, one hand on her breast, pinching her nipple until she shattered around him, her orgasm ripping through her like fire. He followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a guttural groan.

They lay tangled for a moment, panting, until the alarm on his phone buzzed—time to leave.

As he dressed again, Supali watched from the couch, a satisfied but sad smile on her face. "Come back soon. I'll be waiting... burning for you."

He kissed her forehead, then her lips. "Thirty days. Then I'll make up for every single one."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Supali alone with her thoughts—and the lingering warmth between her legs. She sighed, already counting the days, her hand drifting down as she imagined his return.

Supali stood at the door of their second-floor apartment, still in her thin cotton nightdress, hair tousled from the hurried morning sex. It was barely 9 a.m., just hours after Arjun had kissed her goodbye and left for the airport. The bell rang twice—short, impatient rings.

She opened the door expecting a middle-aged aunty in a saree, the kind of maid most families in Hi-Tech City hired. Instead, she found herself staring up at a tall, broad-shouldened man who filled the entire doorway.

He was dark-skinned, almost ebony black, with a thick, muscular build that made Arjun look slim in comparison. His arms strained against the sleeves of a plain grey t-shirt, and his chest was broad and solid. A small duffel bag hung from one massive hand. He looked to be in his late thirties, clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair and calm, deep-set eyes.

“Madam, good morning,” he said in a low, rumbling voice, polite but confident. “Arjun sir sent me. My name is Vikram. I am the helper he arranged for cooking and cleaning while he is offshore.”

Supali blinked, momentarily speechless. Arjun had mentioned a maid over the phone last week—“Don’t worry, jaan, I’ve fixed someone reliable for the house chores”—but he’d never said it would be a man, let alone one built like this.

“Uh… hi,” she managed, clutching the edge of the door. Heat crept up her neck; she suddenly felt very aware of how the soft fabric of her nightdress clung to her curves, how her nipples had hardened slightly in the cool morning air. “Come in.”

Vikram stepped inside, his presence instantly shrinking the living room. He removed his sandals at the entrance without being asked and placed the bag neatly by the shoe rack. His movements were surprisingly gentle for someone so large.

“I can start today itself, madam,” he said, looking around the apartment with quiet efficiency. “Sir told me you go to office by 10. I will clean, wash clothes, prepare lunch and dinner. Whatever you need.”

Supali nodded, still trying to process the situation. “Okay… sure. The kitchen is there, and the washing machine…” Her voice trailed off as she watched him roll up his sleeves, revealing thick forearms corded with muscle and a faint sheen of sweat from the Hyderabad humidity.

She caught herself staring and quickly turned away, cheeks burning. “I’ll just… get ready for work.”

As she walked toward the bedroom, she felt his gaze on her—polite, but unmistakably male. The sway of her hips felt more pronounced than usual, the hem of her nightdress brushing her thighs. Her body, still tingling from Arjun’s touch that morning, responded in a way that both shocked and thrilled her.

In the shower, the hot water ran over her skin and she closed her eyes. Thirty days, she thought. Thirty long days alone… except now she wasn’t entirely alone.

A bulky, powerfully built stranger was in her kitchen, moving quietly, waiting for her instructions.

And something deep inside her—something young, restless, and full of unspent heat—stirred at the thought.

Supali came out of the bedroom twenty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed for work—a crisp white shirt tucked into fitted black trousers, her long hair tied in a neat ponytail. She looked every bit the professional quality engineer, but her cheeks still carried a faint flush from the hot water…and from the thoughts she couldn’t quite shake.

Vikram was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled higher now, washing the breakfast dishes with methodical strength. Each movement made the muscles in his forearms flex; water splashed against the sink as his large hands handled the plates with surprising care. The faint scent of coffee lingered—he’d already brewed a pot.

“Good morning again, madam,” he said without turning, as if sensing her presence. His voice was deep, calm, almost soothing.

Supali leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed under her breasts. “You’ve already started? You don’t waste time.”

He glanced over his shoulder, dark eyes meeting hers for a second longer than necessary. “Sir said you leave by 10. I thought I should begin.” He dried his hands on a towel, turning fully to face her. Up close, he was even more imposing—easily 6'3", broad chest stretching the fabric of his t-shirt, a quiet power in the way he stood.

She nodded, stepping into the kitchen to pour herself coffee. The space felt smaller with him in it. As she reached for a cup on the upper shelf, her shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of smooth midriff. She felt his gaze again—not leering, but definitely noticing.

“You can call me Supali,” she said, turning with the cup in hand. “Not madam. Makes me feel old.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Supali,” he repeated, testing the name. It sounded different in his deep voice—slower, richer. “Sir told me you like South Indian food. I can make idli, dosa, sambar, curry… whatever you want.”

She sipped the coffee—strong, just how she liked it—and leaned against the counter, studying him openly now. “Arjun arranged all this? He didn’t mention you were…” She paused, searching for a word that wasn’t rude. “…so capable-looking.”

Vikram’s smile widened slightly, a flash of white teeth against dark skin. “I worked on the rigs before, madam—Supali. Cooking for crews, cleaning, heavy work. Sir knows me from there. He said his wife is alone for a month, needs someone reliable.” His eyes flicked down her body briefly, then back to her face. “Someone strong enough to handle everything.”

The word everything hung in the air. Supali felt a warm flutter low in her belly. She shifted, crossing one ankle over the other.

“And you live…?”

“I’ll stay in the small store room, if that’s okay. Sir said it has a mattress. I don’t need much.” He gestured toward the narrow utility space off the kitchen. “I’ll be here early, leave after dinner is kept. You won’t even know I’m around… unless you need me.”

Unless you need me.

Supali’s pulse quickened. She took another sip to hide it. “I work till 7 usually. Sometimes later. Dinner by 8:30 would be good.”

He nodded. “Done.”

Silence stretched for a moment—just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Hyderabad traffic far below. She should go. Her cab would arrive soon.

Instead, she found herself asking, “Do you… have a family?”

He shook his head. “Divorced. No children. Work keeps me moving.” His gaze was steady. “I’m used to being away from home. But I take care of the homes I’m in.”

Supali felt heat rising again. She set the cup down. “I should get my bag.”

As she turned to leave the kitchen, Vikram spoke quietly. “Supali.”

She paused, looking back.

“You look very beautiful in that shirt.”

The compliment was simple, direct—no smirk, no leer. Just stated like a fact.

Her breath caught. No one had said anything like that to her in months except Arjun. And certainly not a stranger whose presence filled the room like this.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer than intended.

She walked to the living room, heart beating faster, aware of every step, every sway of her hips. She grabbed her laptop bag, slipped on her heels.

At the door, she turned once more. Vikram was watching from the kitchen entrance, arms folded, massive frame silhouetted.

“I’ll be back around 7:30,” she said.

“I’ll be here,” he replied.

The door closed behind her. In the elevator riding down, Supali pressed her thighs together, feeling the slow, insistent throb between them.

Thirty days, she thought again.

And Day One had only just begun.

Over the next few days, Supali and Vikram settled into an easy, quiet rhythm. He arrived at 7 a.m., left the apartment spotless, prepared meals that were simple but delicious—fiery Andhra-style curries, fluffy idlis, crisp dosas—and retreated to the small store room after keeping dinner warm. He was always polite, always professional, yet his sheer physical presence made the air in the flat feel charged.

One evening, after a particularly long day at the packaging plant, Supali came home exhausted and sweaty from the Hyderabad heat. Vikram had made chicken biryani; the aroma filled the apartment as she kicked off her heels.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, dropping her bag on the couch and heading to the kitchen in her work shirt, sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons undone from the day’s frustration.

Vikram was at the counter, portioning out rice onto a plate for her. He glanced up, eyes lingering for a fraction longer on the soft swell of her breasts visible at the open neckline before meeting her gaze.

“It’s my job, Supali,” he said, voice low. “Sir pays me well to take care of everything.”

She took the plate, their fingers brushing—his rough, hers soft. A small spark jumped between them. She sat at the small dining table, eating slowly, watching him clean up.

After a while, curiosity won. “Vikram… how do you know Arjun? You said you worked on the rigs?”

He paused, drying a vessel, then leaned against the counter, massive arms folded. The kitchen light cast shadows that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.

“Yes. I was on offshore platforms for twelve years. Started as a roustabout—lowest job, heavy lifting, painting, cleaning. Worked my way up to galley hand, then lead cook for a crew of eighty men.”

Supali set her spoon down, intrigued. “Twelve years at sea? That’s… a long time.”

He nodded, eyes distant. “ONGC rigs mostly, off Mumbai High, then some private companies in the KG Basin. Thirty-on, thirty-off rotations. Sometimes longer. You live in metal boxes, eat, sleep, work. Waves twenty feet high some days. Monsoon season, the whole platform shakes like it’s alive.”

She pictured it—this huge, dark-skinned man in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by roughnecks and machinery. “Was it dangerous?”

“Every day,” he said simply. “Fires, gas leaks, men falling overboard. I lost friends. One blast in 2018… seven men gone in seconds.” His jaw tightened briefly. “But the pay was good. Saved money, sent home to village in Tamil Nadu. Thought I’d do it forever.”

Supali leaned forward. “What changed?”

He gave a small, wry smile. “Wife changed. Couldn’t handle the long absences. Said I was married to the sea, not her. Took the kids and left after eight years. Divorce came through two years ago.” He shrugged, as if it no longer hurt. “After that, the rigs felt emptier. I quit last year. Did odd jobs—cooking for camps, construction sites. Then Arjun sir remembered me from a platform we shared in 2020. He was the safety officer, always fair. When he heard I was in Hyderabad, he called. Said his young wife needed someone trustworthy while he’s away.”

Supali felt a strange mix of sympathy and something warmer. “You gave up the sea for… this? Cleaning my apartment?”

Vikram’s dark eyes met hers steadily. “Not just cleaning. Taking care of a home. Cooking good food. Making sure a beautiful woman isn’t alone in a big city.” His voice dropped slightly on the last words. “It’s honest work. And quieter than the rigs.”

The silence that followed was thick. Supali’s pulse beat in her throat. She stood, taking her empty plate to the sink—deliberately brushing past him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

“You must be strong,” she murmured, glancing at his arms. “All that heavy work out there.”

He didn’t move away. “Had to be. Lifting pipes, crates, men sometimes. You build muscle just to survive.”

She turned, back against the counter, looking up at him. He towered over her, the scent of biryani spices and clean male sweat faint around him.

“Show me,” she said softly, half-teasing, half-curious. “How strong?”

Vikram’s eyes darkened. Without a word, he reached past her, gripped the edge of the granite countertop on either side of her waist, and lifted himself—arms straightening, feet leaving the floor—holding the position effortlessly for several seconds before lowering himself silently.

Supali’s breath caught. The raw power in those arms, inches from her body, sent a rush of heat straight between her legs.

“Still strong enough,” he said quietly, not stepping back.

She swallowed. “Yes… you are.”

Neither moved. The only sound was their breathing and the distant hum of traffic far below.

Thirty days, she thought again.

And the nights were getting longer.

A few nights later, the tension in the apartment had thickened like the humid Hyderabad air before a storm. It was a Friday; Supali had come home early, changed into a loose tank top and tiny cotton shorts that barely covered the curve of her ass. Vikram was finishing up in the kitchen, wearing a thin grey half-pant and a sleeveless vest that showed off the full breadth of his chest and arms.

They’d been talking more freely each day—small things at first, then longer conversations over dinner. Tonight, after a couple of glasses of the sweet toddy he’d brought from his village, Supali was feeling playful, her 21-year-old heat simmering just under the surface.

“Vikram,” she said, leaning back on the couch, legs tucked under her, “you said you stayed strong after the rigs. Can you still do those crazy push-ups? Like… the 90-degree ones? Where you hold your body straight out?”

He glanced at her, drying his hands on a towel. A slow smile spread across his face. “Yes, Supali. Easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, giggling softly. “Prove it.”

He didn’t hesitate. He moved the coffee table aside, dropped to the floor in front of her, and assumed the position—hands on the ground, body perfectly straight, then lowered himself until his chest nearly touched the floor. With controlled power, he pushed up and lifted his legs, holding himself horizontal like a flag, arms locked at 90 degrees to the floor. Every muscle in his back, shoulders, and arms stood out in sharp relief under his dark skin.

Supali’s eyes widened. “Oh my God…”

But then her gaze drifted lower. The loose half-pant he wore had ridden down slightly from the position, the fabric stretching tight across his hips. Gravity did the rest. Hanging heavily between his powerful thighs was the unmistakable outline of his cock—thick, long, and completely soft, yet easily seven inches, the head clearly defined against the thin cotton. It swayed slightly with the effort of holding the pose, a heavy, pendulous weight that made her mouth go dry.

Vikram held the position for a full ten seconds, breathing steady, then lowered himself gracefully and stood up.

That’s when he noticed where her eyes had been fixed. He looked down, saw the prominent bulge still settling, and immediately turned halfway, adjusting himself with one large hand.

“Sorry, Supali,” he muttered, voice low and a little rough. “Didn’t mean to… the shorts are old.”

Supali bit her lip, a soft giggle escaping before she could stop it. Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t look away. The toddy had loosened her tongue, and the sight had sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to her core.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, voice breathy. “Really. I just… wasn’t expecting that.” Another small laugh. “You’re… very strong. Everywhere.”

He met her eyes, saw the mischief and desire dancing in them, and didn’t step back. The air between them crackled.

“You shouldn’t laugh,” he said quietly, a hint of teasing in his deep voice. “It gets bigger when it’s happy.”

Supali’s giggle turned into a soft gasp. She pressed her thighs together, feeling herself grow wet almost instantly.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

Neither moved for a long moment. The only sound was their breathing.

Then Vikram cleared his throat, breaking the spell just enough. “I’ll… finish cleaning the kitchen.”

He turned to go, but Supali’s small hand reached out, brushing his forearm.

“Vikram.”

He stopped.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said softly, looking up at him. “Not for being… a man.”

His dark eyes searched hers. Something unspoken passed between them—permission, curiosity, hunger.

He nodded slowly. “Good night, Supali.”

“Good night,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper.

But as he walked to the kitchen, she watched the sway of his broad back and the heavy shift beneath those shorts, and knew sleep would not come easily tonight.

Twenty-six days left.

Over the remaining weeks, the apartment became a space humming with unspoken electricity. Small, seemingly accidental encounters piled up, each one leaving Supali more restless than the last.

One morning, she reached for a coffee mug on the top shelf at the exact moment Vikram came up behind her to grab a pan. His broad chest pressed briefly against her back, and as he stretched past her, the back of his large hand grazed the side of her breast through her thin nightshirt. She froze, nipple hardening instantly against his knuckles. He murmured “sorry” in that deep rumble, but didn’t pull away immediately. She felt the heat of him for a full second before stepping aside, cheeks burning, a damp ache blooming between her legs.

Another evening, while she was bending over to pick up a dropped spoon, Vikram walked past in the narrow kitchen passageway. His hip brushed firmly against her ass, the heavy bulge in his shorts pressing into the cleft for a heartbeat. She straightened up quickly, turning to find his dark eyes locked on hers. “Tight space,” he said quietly. She could only nod, throat dry.

Late one night, unable to sleep, Supali padded to the kitchen for water in just an oversized t-shirt. Vikram was there, drinking from a steel glass, wearing only his half-pant. Moonlight from the window outlined every ridge of muscle on his torso. As she passed, his fingers lightly trailed across her bare thigh—just a whisper of contact, but it made her gasp softly. He didn’t apologise that time. He simply held her gaze until she slipped back to her room, hand slipping between her own thighs the moment the door closed.

These fleeting touches never went further. Vikram remained respectful, almost maddeningly controlled. But each one stoked the fire inside her until she was constantly wet, constantly aware of his presence, constantly counting the hours until Arjun returned.

Finally, the thirtieth day arrived.

Arjun stepped through the door in the evening, tanned and tired from the offshore stint, but his eyes lit up the moment he saw Supali waiting in a simple red saree that hugged her curves. She flew into his arms, kissing him desperately right there in the living room. Vikram stood quietly near the kitchen entrance, duffel bag at his feet.

Arjun released her, then turned and pulled Vikram into a quick, firm man-hug, clapping his back. “Vikram, brother! Thank you for looking after my home.” He grinned. “Was she in good hands?”

Vikram’s eyes flicked to Supali for the briefest moment—something hot and secret flashing there—before he smiled calmly. “Yes, sir. Very good hands. Everything taken care of.”

Supali felt her face flame, but Arjun didn’t notice. He thanked Vikram again, pressed an envelope of cash into his palm, and told him he could leave whenever he was ready.

That night, the bedroom became a storm.

The moment the door shut, Arjun tore at Supali’s saree like a man possessed. Thirty days of abstinence had left him feral, but Supali—she was beyond feral. All the pent-up heat from stolen glances, accidental touches, and nightly fantasies of Vikram’s massive frame poured out of her. She clawed at Arjun’s shirt, pushed him onto the bed, and straddled him before he could even catch his breath.

“Fuck me hard,” she begged, voice raw. “I’ve been burning for you… every single day.”

Arjun groaned, flipping her over and driving into her with one deep thrust. She screamed his name, legs locking around his waist, hips bucking wildly. They fucked like animals—first missionary, her nails raking his back; then doggy, his hands gripping her hips as he slammed into her; then her on top again, riding him furiously, breasts bouncing, head thrown back in ecstasy. She came three times, each orgasm more violent than the last, soaking the sheets. When Arjun finally exploded inside her, she milked him with her pulsing walls until he collapsed, spent and gasping.

They fell asleep tangled and sweaty, the room reeking of sex.

The next morning, Arjun had to leave again—another short rotation, just fifteen days this time. Vikram, ever dependable, offered to drive him to the airport.

Supali stood at the door in her robe, kissing Arjun goodbye, waving as the two men disappeared into the elevator.

The door clicked shut.

Silence rushed back into the apartment.

She leaned against it, heart pounding, the faint ache between her thighs reminding her of last night’s frenzy… and of all the touches that had built it.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside—heavy, familiar ones returning.

A soft knock.

Supali’s breath caught.

She opened the door.

Vikram stood there, keys still in hand, dark eyes fixed on her.

“I dropped sir safely,” he said quietly. “He won’t be back for two weeks.”

The air between them crackled, thick and electric.

Supali stepped aside.

“Come in,” she whispered.

He did.

The door closed behind him.