Romantic Night with My Friend’s Sister – Part 1

I’m Sohail—a techie who earns well, living life my way in the beautiful city of Bangalore. Storywriting is my hobby, and connecting with my readers is my passion. This is my tale with Nida, my friend’s sister.

One evening, my friend Irfan called, his voice heavy with worry. His sister, Nida, was in town. She is from Mangalore and married just a month ago, in April 2022. But her husband had to go to Singapore for work for a month.

Nida came to Bangalore to spend time with him. They stayed two days in a hotel, sharing sweet moments before dropping him at the airport. But after he left, she felt sick, weak, dizzy, really unwell. She called Irfan, and he thought of me.

“Sohail, please help,” he said. “Meet Nida, take her to a clinic, get medicines, and help her board a bus to Mangalore.” I was near the airport, so I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.” Irfan thanked me and sent me her number.

I called Nida right away. She was still at the airport, near the departure gate. “I’m here,” she said, her voice soft and tired. I drove over fast and looked for her. I saw a woman in a black abaya. A niqab covered her face, except for her big, brown eyes, which looked so worn out.

I waved, “Nida? I’m Sohail, Irfan’s friend.” She nodded slowly, “Yes, hi. Thanks for coming.” I smiled, “No problem, let’s go.” To me, a friend’s sister is like my own—no wrong thoughts, just a need to help. She opened the car door and sat beside me.

But right away, she looked worse—her face pale, hands shaking. “You okay?” I asked. She shook her head, “Not good. feeling hot.” To check, I touched her hand—wow, she was burning up, her skin so hot with fever. We couldn’t talk much—she was too weak.

I focused on driving. I took her to a good clinic I knew with kind doctors, hoping they could help her fast. At the clinic, the doctor carefully examined her, taking her temperature and asking questions. Nida sat quietly, her hands folded, her eyes down, shy even with the doctor.

After a while, the doctor turned to me, his voice serious, “She has a high fever and needs rest. I don’t recommend her travelling right now—it could make her worse. Better you send her to relatives if she has any in Bangalore.” I nodded, worried, “Okay, doctor. Thank you.”

He prescribed some medicines—Paracetamol and a few others—and handed me the list. I thanked him again and helped Nida up. We left the clinic, her steps slow, her body weak.

I called Irfan right away, putting the phone on speaker so Nida could hear as well. “Irfan, the doctor checked Nida,” I said. “She’s got a high fever, needs rest, and shouldn’t travel right now. He said to send her to relatives in Bangalore if possible.”

Irfan sighed, “We don’t have relatives there. Let me talk to my family.” Nida looked at me, her eyes tired but grateful, her niqab still on, hiding her face.

Irfan called back, “Sohail, here’s what you can do. Book a hotel for her, drop her there, and then leave for your place. The next morning, pick her up and drop her off at the bus stand if she’s better. I trust you to take care of her.” I nodded, “Got it, Irfan. I’ll handle everything.”

He thanked me, “Thanks a lot, bro,” and hung up. We reached the hotel, a nice place with a cool, air-conditioned room, clean and cosy. It features a soft bed and a small chair in the corner. The evening was warm outside, but the room felt fresh.

I helped Nida walk in, her steps slow from the fever. I put her medicines on the table, filled a glass of water, and said, “Nida, rest well, okay? Take your medicines. I’ll come tomorrow morning.” She nodded, her eyes soft, “Thanks, Sohail, you’re so kind.” I smiled, ready to leave, and said, “Bye then.”

But as I turned, I saw her face—scared, shy, like a lost kid. She whispered, “I’m not feeling good staying alone. I’ve never stayed alone before.” I felt bad. “I know,” I said, “but Irfan told me to leave.” She nodded, “Yeah, even I want you to leave, but…” Her eyes pleaded.

I thought, then said, “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ll sleep on the chair, don’t worry. But don’t tell Irfan.” She agreed

I sat in the chair. She went to the washroom to change. When she came out in a transparent black saree, a tight blouse showing her milky chest and a hint of navel, I was shocked! She had no bag left at the airport in that chaos, probably wearing it for her husband.

Her skin glowed so beautifully—trust me, I’ve seen many girls but never like her! Just then, her phone rang—Irfan. She answered, “Hello, bhai.” I stayed quiet. Irfan asked, “Nida, are you okay? Where’s Sohail?”

She glanced at me, smiling shyly, “I’m fine, bhai. Sohail was so good—he took me to the clinic, got medicines, and left already.” Her praise made my heart jump, but I felt guilty sitting there hidden.

After the call, she lay on the bed, the blanket up to her chin, her face pale again. She had a fever, and I could tell she was in pain, but she was too shy to say it. I was on my phone, scrolling through something, not paying much attention. She kept looking at me, wanting to tell me.

But her lips stayed closed, her eyes full of hesitation. I looked up, saw her face—sweaty, uncomfortable—and understood. “Nida, you okay?” I asked. She nodded slowly, “Just. Fever. And it hurts a little.” Her voice was soft and shy. I touched her forehead. It was hot, burning with fever.

“You need to cool down,” I said, worried. “Let me put a cold cloth on your head.” She looked unsure, “No, it’s okay,” but her body was weak, and she had no choice. She nodded reluctantly, “Okay.” I got up, brought water, dipped a clean cloth in it, squeezed it, and gently placed it on her forehead.

She closed her eyes, the cloth cooling her hot skin. I went back to the chair. After a while, I saw her tossing a little. The cloth was warm now. I got up to change it, dipping a new one in cold water. As I placed it on her forehead, I noticed the blanket.

She was covering herself tightly, but her face looked hotter, with sweat on her cheeks. “Nida,” I said, “this blanket is making you hot. The AC is on—let’s remove it, feel the air.” She shook her head quickly, “No. I’m fine with it.” Her voice was shy, her hands gripping the blanket tighter.

I frowned, “You’re burning up, Nida. It’s not good for your fever.” She replied, “But I’ll feel cold without it.” I didn’t agree, “You need this.” She hesitated again, “No. What if I feel worse?” Her eyes were pleading, but I could see the sweat on her face, her breathing heavy.

I sighed, “Nida, please. Your fever is too high. We have to cool you down.” After a long pause, she looked down, her voice small, “Okay.” I pulled the blanket off gently, keeping my eyes low at first. Her saree was loose now, the transparent black fabric slipping a bit, the tight blouse hugging her body.

She looked so hot! Her skin was like milk, glowing so perfectly, not a single mark. Her navel was a small, cute dip, so beautiful, peeking just above the saree. The blouse was tight, showing the shape of her chest, milky white, so stunning against the black fabric.

I’ve never seen a girl look this gorgeous in a saree; her fever making her cheeks pink adds to her beauty. She glanced at her body, shy, her hands trying to cover herself, but she was too weak. I sat back on the chair, my heart beating fast, trying to focus on helping Nida, not her beauty.

She was still hot, her forehead burning even with the cold cloth. I remembered something, “Nida, I just googled—it says we need to put cold clothes in more places to lower your fever, like your hands, neck, and maybe belly.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide, shy, “No. not the belly, please.” Her voice was soft, her hands pulling the saree to cover her stomach. I nodded, “Okay, let’s start with your hands and neck then.”

I dipped the cloth in cold water, squeezed it, and gently took her hand. Her skin was so soft, glowing even in the dim light, but so hot from fever. I placed the cloth on her wrist, holding it there, the coolness making her sigh a little. She closed her eyes, her breathing slowing.

After a minute, I said, “Now, your neck, okay? It’ll help.” She nodded slowly, still shy, “Okay.” I moved the cloth to her neck, her skin smooth and milky. The coolness made her shiver a bit, her chest rising under the tight blouse. I kept my eyes on her face, my heart racing, but focused on her fever.

Then I said, “Nida, your belly next—it’ll cool you more.” She shook her head quickly, “No. I don’t want that. I’ll do it myself if I need to.” I didn’t push, “Okay, you do it then.” She reached for the cloth and placed it on her belly without squeezing the water.

The cold water dripped down, making her saree wet. The transparent black fabric stuck to her skin, showing her navel even more. After a while, her face looked weaker, and her breathing was heavy. I got worried, “Nida, you okay? The cloth are warm now. Can I remove it, dip it again, and put it back?”

She thought for a moment, her eyes tired. She tried to sit up to do it herself, but her body was too weak, her hands falling back. She looked at me shyly, then nodded her head slowly, “Okay.” I moved closer, my hands careful, and removed the cloth from her belly.

The saree is now almost see-through, showing her skin. As I looked at her, trying to focus on helping, I felt something stirring within me. I didn’t mean to, but my body reacted, my dick getting big, hard to hide. I turned away quickly, dipping the cloth in cold water again, my heart racing, feeling guilty but unable to stop it.

Neither of us wanted this, but the situation, her fever, it was too much. I placed the cloth back on her belly. My hands were shaking slightly, and I sat back in the chair, trying to calm down; the night felt so heavy now. Nida lay there for a while, the cold cloth cooling her fever, her breathing softening.

The wet saree stuck to her skin. After a bit, she seemed to feel a little better. She sat up slowly, her body still weak, and moved closer to me on the bed. I didn’t mean to, but my heart leapt at the sight of her so close. She noticed my look but didn’t pull away.

“Sohail,” she said softly, “thanks for staying. I was so scared alone.” I smiled, “It’s okay, Nida. I couldn’t leave you like this.” We started talking about personal things and getting comfortable. “So,” I asked, “what’s it like being married? You and your husband just started, right?”

She looked down, her fingers playing with the wet saree edge, “Yes. It’s new. He’s nice, but I miss him; he must already be in Singapore. I’m not used to being away.” I nodded, “I get it. What do you like to do?” She smiled a little, “I love cooking—fish curry, Mangalore style. What about you?”

I laughed, “I’m bad at cooking, but I love eating! Maybe you can teach me someday.” She giggled, her face lighting up, “Maybe. If you’re good at listening.”

The talk felt easy, her shyness fading as we shared more. We kept talking. “What about you?” I asked. “Any dreams?” She thought, “I want to open a small café in Mangalore. But now, I don’t know as I got married.” I nodded, “You’ll do it, Nida. You’re strong.” She smiled.

Suddenly, Nida’s face changed—she looked confused, her eyes blinking fast. Then she fainted, her body falling forward. I caught her quickly, pulling her into my lap, her head resting on my arm. “Nida! Nida, wake up!” I shouted.

Thank you for reading this so far! Wait for the next part. If anyone wants to have fun, chat, or meet up to discuss anything in and around Dubai or elsewhere, I’m available anytime at [email protected].