The Mumbai summer was a living thing—thick, humid, and unrelenting. Even in the late afternoon, the air in the Bandra high-rise clung to the skin like a second layer, heavy with the scent of sea salt drifting in from the Arabian Sea and the faint exhaust from the traffic below. Aryan Sharma stepped out of the elevator on the fifteenth floor, his college bag slung over one shoulder, shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back.
At twenty-three, Aryan was in his final year of engineering, still living with his parents in the comfortable but cramped flat they'd owned for a decade. The building was one of those modern towers—glass balconies, thin walls, neighbors who knew far too much about each other's lives whether they wanted to or not.
He paused outside his door, keys in hand, when he caught sight of movement on the opposite balcony.
Priya Mehta.
She was hanging laundry on the line that stretched across her veranda, her back to him, long dark hair cascading down in loose waves that reached the curve of her lower back. At thirty-four, Priya was the kind of beautiful that stopped conversations. Full, heavy breasts that strained against the thin cotton of her pale blue kurti, a narrow waist flaring into wide hips and thick, soft thighs that even her loose salwar couldn't hide. The humid air made the fabric cling in places, outlining the swell of her ass as she reached up to pin a bedsheet.
Aryan's throat went dry.
He'd known her for years—ever since Rohan, her son and his childhood friend, had dragged him over to play video games back in school. Rohan was away at hostel now, and Priya's husband, Vikram Mehta, was some high-flying corporate type who spent more time in airports than at home. This week, he was in Singapore. Again.
Priya hummed softly as she worked, a low, melodic sound that carried on the warm breeze. Aryan didn't move. He couldn't. His eyes traced the way her kurti rode up slightly when she stretched, revealing a sliver of smooth, golden midriff glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. The scent hit him next—her perfume, something floral and expensive, mixed with the warmer, intimate note of her skin. It drifted across the narrow gap between balconies and wrapped around him like fingers.
Then he saw it.
Among the bedsheets and Vikram's crisp office shirts, a pair of delicate black lace panties fluttered lightly in the breeze. The fabric was sheer, almost transparent, the kind that would cling to soft, swollen lips and leave nothing to imagination. Aryan's cock twitched in his jeans, heat pooling low in his belly.
He should go inside. He knew that.
Instead, he lingered, pretending to check his phone while his gaze stayed fixed on her.
Priya finished pinning the last item and stepped back, wiping her forehead with the edge of her dupatta. She glanced toward the sky, lips parting in a soft sigh as another wave of humid air rolled through. Aryan's pulse thudded in his ears.
That evening, the heat refused to break.
Aryan lay on his bed, window cracked open to catch whatever faint breeze might wander in from the sea. The walls were thin—too thin. He'd always known that. But tonight, the sounds coming from the Mehta flat were different.
Soft at first. A rustle of fabric. Then a low, breathy exhale.
"Ahn…"
His entire body went rigid.
Priya's voice. Unmistakably.
Another sound followed—a slick, rhythmic slide of skin on skin, punctuated by the faintest wet noise. Aryan's breath caught as he realized what he was hearing. She was alone. Vikram was halfway across Asia. And Priya Mehta—elegant, untouchable Priya—was touching herself.
"Nha… ahh…"
The moans grew louder, needier, carrying through the open windows and thin plaster like they were meant for him. Aryan's hand moved without conscious thought, sliding down to palm the aching bulge in his boxers. He was already leaking, cock throbbing against his palm as he imagined her on the other side of the wall.
Spread legs. Fingers buried deep in that slick, mature pussy. Full breasts spilling out of her nightgown as she arched, chasing release. Sweat beading between those heavy tits, trickling down the curve of her stomach. The scent of her arousal thick in the humid air.
He stroked himself slowly at first, matching the rhythm of her gasps. Every moan she let out sent a jolt straight to his balls. He pictured her face—those soft lips parted, dark eyes glazed with pleasure, cheeks flushed. Imagined her whispering his name instead of just breathless sounds.
"Haah… yes…"
Priya's voice cracked on a higher note, and Aryan's hips jerked into his fist. He was dripping now, pre-cum slicking his length as he pumped faster. The thought of her—experienced, married, gorgeous—fucking herself while he listened like a pervert made his cock swell impossibly harder.
He wanted to be the one making her sound like that.
Wanted to pin those thick thighs apart and bury his face between them. Lick up every drop of her wetness until she sobbed. Wanted to feel those full, soft breasts pressed against his chest while he drove into her over and over, filling her in ways her husband never could.
Priya's moans peaked—sharp, desperate cries that made Aryan's vision blur.
He came with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum spilling over his fist and stomach as her final, shuddering gasp echoed in his ears.
Silence followed.
Heavy breathing on both sides of the wall.
Aryan lay there, chest heaving, guilt and hunger twisting together in his gut.
Tomorrow, Vikram would still be gone.
And Priya Mehta would still be right there.
Just beyond the wall.