Reunion with Komal Bhabhi – Part 2 (Memories that her cleavage brought me)

Hello y’all, Sam here, and back to continue the untold stories I had written years ago. Gosh, time flies. This is from my escapades with a wonderful human in Komal Bhabhi. So, back to that night of that surprising day.

That kiss on my cheek from Bhabhi stuck with me all day. It wasn’t a normal aunty-peck. My mind kept going back to that trial room. The violet bra, her glowing skin, and the way she didn’t even try to cover up when she called me in. She knew what she was doing.

Saturday was useless. I couldn’t study. Couldn’t focus. All I thought about was Sunday. Four kilometres away. So close.

I told myself it was just a visit. Kiran Bhaiya was in Qatar. Her mother-in-law was probably around. We’d have chai and talk about old times. Normal stuff. But I felt restless, like before an exam you know you haven’t studied for. Maybe the memories were too strong to forget.

Sunday came, and I had to visit. Or maybe I had a hidden agenda, not too sure. Looked up the address and booked an auto, and reached the place after 20 minutes. I was in this big ass apartment which made me understand Kiran Bhaiya was doing well as I pressed “12” on the elevator.

She opened the door as soon as I rang the bell. Komal had on a peach-colored kurti and white leggings. The kurti looked simple, but it was made of thin material. It showed everything. The shape of her breasts, her waist, her hips. That body to die for.

Her hair was tied up, but bits of it fell around her face. She looked… amazing.

“Sam! You came!” She smiled and hugged me right there in the doorway. This hug was different from the mall. It was tighter, but my lil bro inside the pants was already excited. I felt her whole body against mine. My hands patted her back awkwardly.

“You told me to come, Bhabhi,” I said.

“Good boy,” she laughed, letting go. “Come in. Leave your shoes.”

The flat was big and quiet. Really quiet. Huge windows showed the whole city.

“Where’s Maa Ji?” I asked.

“Oh, she went to her home for a week. Some family thing,” Komal said, walking to the kitchen. “So, it’s just us. Chai?”

*Just us.* The words hung in the air.

“Yeah,” I said. “Chai sounds good.”

I stood near the kitchen island, watching her. She moved easily. Filled the kettle, got cups from a high shelf. The kurti rode up a little, showing a strip of skin on her lower back. I stared until she turned around.

“So,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Final year. Big man on campus? Lots of girlfriends?”

I laughed, a bit nervous. “No girlfriends. Just work.”

“Liar,” she smiled. “A boy like you? You must be breaking hearts.”

“Says the most beautiful woman in Bangalore,” I said. It came out easily, like old times.

She blushed, actually blushed, and turned to the tea. “Still sweet-talking, I see.”

“Some things change,” I said without thinking.

She stopped for a while and went, “Do they?”

It got quiet. The only sound was the kettle. I remembered her in the red light. Her moans. Her skin. The kettle whistled loudly. She jumped, then laughed. “Scares me every time!”

We talked about safe things after that. She answered all the questions with a gentle smile on her face, as usual.

“Remember,” she said, sipping her chai, “that time in the rain? When you helped me with my blouse?”

I almost choked. “Vaguely.”

“Vaguely?” She laughed. “You were shaking. I thought you’d faint.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“You were trying very hard,” she said, looking right at me. “And then you ran out like the room was on fire.” She shook her head, smiling. “I thought about that a lot after you left. How simple it was. In the beginning.”

*In the beginning.* That meant there was an after. The air felt thick.

“Why did you call me in there, Bhabhi?” I asked. I never had the guts to ask back then. “You could have done it yourself.”

She put her cup down slowly. Looked out the window. “I was curious,” she said softly. “I saw how you looked at me. At the market. At dinner. You weren’t like Kiran. You actually *saw* me. I wanted to know what you’d do. If you were looking, or if you’d… act.”

She looked back at me. Her eyes were dark. “Turns out you acted. But you were so careful. You took your time.”

My heart was pounding now. This wasn’t safe talk.
“I was scared,” I said.

“I know,” she whispered. “So was I.”

It got quiet again, but this kind of quiet was heavy. The space on the sofa between us felt like it was pulling me.

“Show me the flat?” I asked, needing to move.

She smiled. “Okay. Kiran loves this place.”

Then the house tour started, showing me the guest room, the home office, and the balcony. I was thinking why on earth they want to have such a big place, just for three people, two with Kiran not being there. Finally, she stopped at the last door.

“Master bedroom,” she said, and pushed it open.

It was a big, nice room. A huge bed with a fancy cream bedsheet. Everything was neat. Too neat. No photos. No mess. It didn’t feel lived in. It felt like a showroom.

I stayed in the doorway. This was their room. Kiran’s room.

Komal walked in and went to the closet, leaving the door open. “Kiran designed this closet,” she called out.

I could see his suits on one side. Her clothes, on the other hand. My eyes caught something black and lacy hanging alone. The lingerie from the shop.

She saw me looking. Instead of hiding it, she walked over and touched the strap. “That salesgirl was right,” she said, not looking at me. “She thought we were a couple. A young wife and her husband.” She said ‘husband’ like the word tasted bad.

Then she turned, leaning in the closet doorway, arms crossed under her chest. It pushed her breasts up. “What would you have done, Sam,” she asked, her voice low, “if we were a couple? If you were my husband in that trial room? Would you have stayed or run away like you did last time?”

The question was so spicy that my mouth went dry. Every part of me wanted to say one thing. My brain was shouting *Kiran Bhaiya, family, stop. *

I took one step into the room. Just one.

“If I were your husband, Bhabhi,” I said, my voice rough, “I wouldn’t have waited for you to call me. I’d have been in there already. And that lace wouldn’t have stayed on for a second.”

She sucked in a breath. Her cheeks went pink. She looked at me, and for a second, I saw it—the same want I was feeling. Right there in her eyes. Raw.

But then her eyes shifted. She looked past me, at the empty, perfect bed, and something changed. The moment broke. She straightened up, smoothed her kurti, and let out a shaky laugh.

“Such a filmy line, Sam! Too many movies.” She walked past me, out of the room. “Come, lunch is ready. I made paneer butter masala.”

I followed, my whole body was buzzing. We’d gotten close to the edge, but we hadn’t jumped.

Lunch was normal. We talked about college, Netflix, and traffic. We laughed. But underneath it all, you could feel it—what almost happened in that bedroom. The hunger that didn’t get fed.

After lunch, I video-called Mumma and had her talk with Komal. It lasted for a few minutes before we had nothing else to do.

“Want to see some photos?” she asked me.

I was like, sure, since I didn’t know what else to do. In a couple of minutes, we were sitting on the floor of the living room, looking at some old photo albums that she had dug out. She was leaning over the book, pointing at a picture of Kiran Bhaiya from years ago.

My mind wasn’t on the photos. She was sitting cross-legged, facing me. That thin peach kurti was loose at the neck. Every time she leaned forward to turn a page, the neckline gaped open. I tried to look at the pictures. I really did. But my eyes kept dropping down.

There it was. The deep shadow between her breasts. A smooth, creamy curve. The edge of a plain, beige bra. Simple, not like the lace in the shop. But seeing it here, in her home, in the daylight, felt ten times more private. More real.

She was talking about the trip in the photo, her voice soft. I made a noise like I was listening. “Hmm.”

She shifted, reaching for another album on the low table. The movement made the kurti pull tight across her chest for a second. I saw the full, heavy shape of her. The way the soft cotton clung. My throat went dry.

I pretended to be interested in a different page, leaning in too. Our shoulders almost touched. From this angle, I could see right down the front of her kurti. The shadow was deeper. I could see the gentle swell where her breast met the cup of her bra. A faint blue vein under her skin.

My jeans started to feel tight. I shifted, trying to adjust myself without being obvious. My heart was beating hard in my ears, louder than her voice.

She must have felt me staring. She stopped talking mid-sentence. She didn’t look up at me. She just went very still. Her finger stayed on a photo.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward a little more, reaching for her glass of water on the table. The neckline fell open completely.

For one full, endless second, I saw everything. The smooth slope of her breast, all the way down to where the dark pink nipple would be, was hidden by the bra. The soft skin of her inner curve. It was just a flash. Then she straightened up, bringing the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip.

She still didn’t look at me. A faint pink flush crept up her neck. She put the glass down carefully. Her breathing seemed a little quicker.

She turned the page. Her hand was not quite steady.

“This one is from my cousin’s wedding,” she said, her voice a bit huskier than before. She cleared her throat.

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, my eyes glued to the album, but seeing nothing. The image of that shadow, that smooth skin, was burned into my head.

And then, like a punch, the memory hit me. Not from a movie. Not from some porn I’d seen later. From her. From that first time, in the dark, in this same city years ago.

I was 19. Clumsy. I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anything. When my mouth finally found her breast, I didn’t know there was a technique.

I didn’t know about teasing, licking, or biting soft. I just took her nipple into my mouth, desperate, and sucked. Hard. Like I was dying of thirst.

I didn’t know if I was doing it right. I just kept going, switching from one to the other, sucking and licking clumsily, driven by a blind, hungry instinct. The taste of her skin—salty, sweet, like nothing else.

The feel of her nipple hardening against my tongue. The little sounds she made, trying to keep quiet. It was the most real, raw thing I’d ever known.

Sitting there on her living room floor, with the sun shining and photo albums between us, my mouth actually watered. My whole body remembered. I was lost in that fantasy land when suddenly I heard her voice again.

“Sam? What happened”

I shifted again, the ache in my jeans now a persistent, painful throb. I had to look away from her.

“Ahh, nothing. The food was too good, I might have wanted more.”

Saying so, I stared at a random photo of a temple, but all I could see was the past.

“Oh, hahaha!” she said as her focus went to show me more photos.

The air in the room wasn’t just thick anymore. It was suffocating. Charged with a memory so vivid it felt like it had happened five minutes ago.

She turned another page. “That was a good trip,” she said softly, almost to herself. Her voice pulled me back to the present. But when I dared to glance at her, her cheeks were still flushed. She was staring at the photo, but her eyes were unfocused. Far away.

I knew where she’d gone. She’d gone to the same dark room I’d just visited. We sat in silence for a long minute, the ghost of that first time lying heavily between us, more intimate than any touch we’d shared today.

Finally, she closed the album with a soft thud. “I think… I’m getting a bit tired,” she said, not meeting my eyes. She stood up, smoothing her kurti down. “Should we… call it a day?”

When I left, standing at her door again, things felt different. Heavy.

“Thanks for coming, Sam,” she said, not looking at me. “It was good to see you.”

“You too, Bhabhi. Really.”

“Don’t disappear this time,” she said, looking up. Her eyes were serious. “My number’s in your phone. Use it.”

“I will.”

She leaned in and hugged me. A long, tight hug. “Take care,” she whispered.

“You too.”

I walked to the elevator, feeling her watch me until the doors closed. I sat in my car for a while, just thinking. The hug. The blush. The peach kurti. The question in the bedroom. The look in her eyes.

Nothing happened. No sex, no kiss. But it was the most tense, spicy few hours of my life. We didn’t start an old fire. We just piled up all the wood around it, poured petrol on it, and stood there together with a match, waiting to see who’d let it drop.

More in part 3. Thanks for reading, y’all. If you have any feedback, have your own experiences to share, or maybe want to catch up somewhere for a nice cosy lunch or dinner in Bangalore.

Drop your texts to: [email protected]. Happy holidays till I meet you with the next part!