Every accidental touch, every glimpse of bare skin, every careless bend or stretch of their bodies drove them closer to the edge. The women were unaware, casual in their freedom, but to Akshay and Vivek, each moment felt like a forbidden invitation.
Books and exams lay forgotten more often now. Their worlds had narrowed to soft t-shirts, boxers clinging to curves, and the unbearable ache of wanting more.
The hunger wasn’t stopping. If anything, it was growing bolder, sharper, impossible to ignore. Books and notes lay open on their desks, but Akshay and Vivek found their hands drifting to their phones more often than their pens.
Akshay – Lucknow
It began one night when he couldn’t sleep. Sonam had been careless that evening—her t-shirt clung damply after washing her face, her nipples pressing faintly against the thin cotton. That image refused to leave his head. He unlocked his phone, fingers hesitating before finally typing on Google: “desi bhabhi nude,” “Indian girl shower.”
The screen filled with thumbnails—brown skin, wet curves, secret moans. He clicked, and soon the room filled with faint whispers of porn: women giggling in Hindi, men groaning, water splashing, sarees slipping. Akshay’s cock hardened instantly. He stroked himself while watching, but more than the video, it was the comments below that caught his breath.
“Yaar, meri bhi chhoti behen aisi hi dikhti hai…”
“Mere ghar wali bhi bina bra ke ghoomti hai, din raat dekh ke pagal ho jaata hoon.”
“Boxer me ass dekhta hoon to control nahi hota.”
He froze, scrolling down, realizing the thoughts that had been eating him alive were not his alone. Hundreds of others confessed the same hunger in broken Hindi-English comments, shameless, raw.
His guilt loosened. His hand pumped faster, harder, as he read and imagined Sonam’s wet body merging with the women on screen. Release came hot, messy, but instead of shame, he felt a strange relief: he wasn’t alone.
Vivek – Patna
For Vivek, it was a different path. He had stumbled onto Antarvasna.com while aimlessly searching one night. Titles caught his eye: “Choti shorts wali ladki ne pagal kiya,” “Meri cousin ki body ne hila diya.”
He clicked. Words spilled across the screen—explicit, dirty, shameless. Stories of men watching women in boxers, slipping into bathrooms, fantasizing about curves they weren’t supposed to touch. Every paragraph seemed to echo his own secret torment about Akariti.
His heart pounded as he scrolled faster, his cock hard under his shorts, his hand moving furiously. The comments section was a storm of confessions, each one a mirror:
“Meri behen bhi raat ko bina bra ke soti hai, main deewana ho jaata hoon.”
“Bhabhi ki cleavage dekh kar roz hand marna padta hai.”
“Boxer wali ass sabse dangerous hoti hai yaar.”
Vivek shivered, precum slick in his palm, realizing he wasn’t some monster alone in his lust. There were thousands, faceless men across the country, drowning in the same fantasies. That knowledge didn’t kill his desire—it fed it.
When he finally came, groaning into his pillow, it was with the twisted comfort of knowing his hunger was part of something bigger, a secret brotherhood of desire.