Forbidden Flames with My Sister-in-Law – Part 1

I’m Sohail, a techie who earns well and lives life my way in the beautiful city of Dubai. Storywriting is my hobby, and connecting with my readers is my passion. This is my tale with Neha. It starts at my engagement and ends with a wild ride. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did living it.

I’m available anytime at [email protected].

I’m married to a sweet woman, and we live in Mumbai. My wife’s elder sister, Neha, lives nearby. She’s married too, with a busy husband. My SIL is short but beautiful, like a diva. Her body is perfect. Everything is in place. Her skin is so white, almost glowing.

Her boobs are perfect for her body, not too big, not too small. I first saw her at my engagement. Back then, I just thought, “She’s pretty,” nothing more. No dirty thoughts. Just normal liking. She’s conservative and loyal to her husband, and I’m loyal to my wife, too. But something changed recently.

One day, I went to my SIL’s house. We were all supposed to go somewhere together. I was there to pick her up. I knocked, and she opened the door, looking rushed. She was in a green saree, her hair a little messy. “Sohail, wait a minute, okay? I’m coming,” she said, smiling quickly.

Then she turned and went back inside. I sat on the sofa, scrolling my phone. I heard her go into her room and close the door. Or at least, she tried to. The lock didn’t catch—it stayed open just a little. I didn’t mean to look, but my eyes went there. Through the gap, I saw my SIL.

She was undraping her saree, letting it fall to the floor. Then she started redraping it. I couldn’t look away. Her skin was so fair, like milk, shining in the light. Her stomach was flat but soft, curving down to her hips.

And her navel—God, it was beautiful, this tiny, perfect circle, deep and smooth, sitting right in the middle of that stomach. Her blouse, dark red and tight, hugged her boobs perfectly. They weren’t huge. But they pushed out just enough, round and perky, with a cleavage that looked so creamy and inviting.

They moved a little as she adjusted the saree. My breath caught. My pants tightened. My mind went crazy. I wanted to touch that navel, kiss her like anything, feel those perfect boobs. Guilt hit me, but the hunger won.

She finished and came out all proper again. “Okay, Sohail, let’s go,” Neha said, normal as ever. I nodded, but my head was spinning. That picture of her wouldn’t leave me.

A few days later, I went to her house again. I didn’t tell anyone—just dropped by. I knocked, and no response. I walked inside. She was sitting on the couch, stitching her dress with a needle and thread. Her blouse was loose, one side pulled down a bit as she worked on it.

She didn’t expect me. Our eyes met for a second. She froze, then covered up fast with her hands. “Oh, Sohail! You’re here,” she said, voice shaky. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah, just… passing by,” I mumbled. But my eyes weren’t on her face. They locked onto her chest. Before she covered up, I saw it—half her boob, nude and perfect. Even after she pulled the saree over, I could see the outline. Those perfect boobs pressing against the cloth, calling to me.

My throat went dry. My heart hammered. I wanted to pull that saree away, see both of them and hold them in my hands. The greed took over—I needed more. She looked away, fixing her blouse, and said, “Sit, I’ll get you water.” She got up and left the room fast.

I sat there, my mind racing. She was my SIL. She was married. I was married. But those thoughts didn’t stop me from wanting her now. After that day, something changed in me. I couldn’t shake her out of my head—her fair skin, that beautiful navel, those perfect boobs.

I wanted more. More glimpses, more moments. I started feeling for my SIL, and this hunger was growing inside me. She was so close, yet so far. Neha is loyal to her husband, and there is no doubt about that. She’s proper, always talking about him.

But sometimes, she’s easy with me—relaxed, laughing at my jokes, chatting like we’re old friends. That’s where I’d start. I wouldn’t push too hard with flirty stuff—just enough to make her smile and get her trust.

She didn’t wear sarees all the time either. Sometimes, it was pyjamas and a kurta, simple but still showing off her short, curvy body. I had to play it smart.

A few days later, I got a chance. My wife said, “Sohail, can you drop some groceries at Neha’s place? I’m busy today.” Perfect. I grabbed the bags and went over. I knocked, and my SIL opened the door. She was in a light yellow kurta and pyjamas, her fair skin glowing even in that casual look.

Her boobs pressed softly against the kurta, no dupatta today. “Oh, Sohail, you’re here,” she said, smiling. “Come in.” I stepped inside, holding the bags. “Wife sent these for you,” I said, putting them on the table. She nodded and started unpacking.

I didn’t rush off. I leaned against the wall, watching her move. “You’re always working hard, huh? I said, keeping it friendly. She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, no time to rest. What about you? Don’t you get tired?”

“Sometimes,” I said, grinning. “But I feel better when I’m around good company.” I kept it light, not too flirty. She laughed a little. “Good company? Me? I’m just unpacking groceries,” she said, shaking her head. Her kurta shifted as she reached up, showing a tiny peek of her white stomach.

My eyes stuck there for a second, but I looked away quickly. Didn’t want her catching me yet. I stayed a bit, chatting. “You make everything look easy, you know,” I said, keeping it simple. She shrugged. “Not really. Yesterday, I messed up dinner, and he wasn’t happy,” she said, joking about her husband.

We laughed together. It felt nice and natural. I didn’t flirt more—just let her get comfortable with me being around. The next time I saw her was at our house. She came over wearing a red pyjama set with a loose kurta. My wife was busy in the kitchen.

My SIL sat on the couch. I sat nearby, acting normal. “You look relaxed today,” I said, smiling. Her fair skin stood out against the red, and the kurta hung just right over her curves. She glanced at me. “Thanks, Sohail. It’s nice to get out sometimes,” she said.

I nodded, then added, real casually, “Yeah, and you make any room brighter, you know.” She looked at me quickly, then away, smiling a little. “You’re too nice,” she said softly. I didn’t push it—just let it sit there. She adjusted her kurta, and I stole a glance at her shape. Perfect, as always.

Over the next few days, I kept it up—small talk, little compliments. Like when she wore a saree again, I said, “You look good in everything, don’t you?” She’d blush or laugh it off, saying, “Sohail, stop it,” but she didn’t get mad.

Another time, in pyjamas, I told her, “You’re lucky to be so pretty without even trying.”  She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You say too much,” she replied, but she didn’t walk away. She was getting used to me trusting me more.

Then, one evening, luck gave me something big. My SIL needed a ride home from a family dinner at our place. Her husband was working late, so I offered to help. “I’ll drop you on my bike,” I said. She nodded. She was in a purple saree that night, looking stunning. Her fair skin shone under the streetlights.

I helped her sit behind me, her hands light on my shoulders. The ride was quiet, just the sound of the bike and the wind. I could feel her close, her body brushing mine when we turned. My mind was already buzzing. When we reached her place, I stopped the bike, and she got off.

But as she stepped down, her foot twisted—must’ve hit a stone or something. She cried out, “Ahh!” and stumbled, grabbing my arm. Her face scrunched up in pain, tears in her eyes. “Neha, you okay?” I said, jumping off the bike. She tried to stand, but her ankle hurt too much. “It’s fine, I’ll walk,” she said, wincing.

“No, wait,” I said, stepping closer. I put my hand on her arm to steady her. Then, without thinking, my other hand went to her bare waist—oh man, that felt so good. Her skin was warm, soft like butter, so fair and smooth under my fingers. I could feel the curve of her side, that perfect little dip above her hip.

My heart raced, my whole body lit up. I’d never touched her like this before. But even in pain, she pushed my hand away quickly. “Sohail, no,” she said, her voice sharp, still loyal, still proper. She tried to walk again, limping badly. “You’ll harm your leg,” I said. “Wait, please.”

She wasn’t listening, stubborn as hell. I stepped in front of her. “No, wait,” I said softly, then leaned close and whispered, “Don’t tell my wife or your husband about this.” She looked at me, confused, her big eyes wide.

Before she could say anything, I scooped her up in my arms. One hand is under her knees, the other is on her back, and her fingers are brushing her waist again. So close to her boobs, I could feel their heat through the blouse.

“No, no, Sohail!” she gasped. “Somebody will see!” Her voice was shaky, scared, but soft. “I don’t care,” I said, looking right at her. “I never want to see you in pain. Even if I have to walk 10 km, I’ll hold you.” My grip tightened.

My hand pressed into that smooth waist, the other sliding up her back, inches from those perfect boobs. She went still, her face close to mine. She was shy, cheeks red, but she didn’t fight anymore. Her eyes locked with mine. For a second, it was like she realised something—something new between us.

She didn’t say a word, just stared, breathing fast. I could feel her body against me, warm and soft, and I didn’t want to let go. I could feel her body against me, warm and soft, and I didn’t want to let go. My SIL was in my arms. Her foot twisted, her face red from shyness and pain.

She went still, her face close to mine. She was shy, cheeks red, but she didn’t fight anymore. Her eyes locked with mine, and I stared back. I kept walking toward her apartment, holding her tight, our gazes stuck together. It wasn’t romantic, not really, but it was something.

My heart pounded, not just from carrying her but from how close she was. We reached her place. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and carried her inside. I walked to her bedroom and gently lowered her onto the bed. Her saree shifted a little, showing that fair skin again, but I tried not to stare.

She winced as her foot touched the mattress. “Sohail, it’s okay. I’ll manage,” she said, her voice small, still saying no like always. I knelt beside her, reaching for her foot. “No, let me see,” I said. She pulled back, shaking her head. “No, no, don’t,” she kept saying, nervous.

I looked up at her, her eyes big and worried. Without thinking, I brushed my finger over her lips—soft, warm, trembling a little. “Stop,” I said gently. “I’m here to see how bad it hurts, that’s all.” She froze, but she didn’t push me away.

Her lips felt so good under my touch, but I pulled my hand back quickly. Didn’t want to scare her. I grabbed some Vicks from the table nearby—every house has that stuff, right? I rubbed a little between my fingers and looked at her. “This’ll help,” I said.

She nodded, still shy. I took her foot in my hands, careful not to hurt her. Her skin was so fair. Even her feet were pretty—small and soft- with that twist making her ankle swell a bit. I started rubbing the Vicks on it, slow and gentle. The smell filled the air, sharp and cool.

My fingers moved over her skin, feeling every curve of her foot. It wasn’t sexual, but it felt good—too good. Her toes curled a little, and she let out a small sigh, like the pain was easing. I glanced up at her. She was smiling now, just a little, watching me.

“Feels better?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. She nodded. “Yes, thank you,” she said softly. Her eyes were warm, grateful, but still innocent. Nothing more. She was still my SIL, still loyal to her husband, proper. I kept rubbing for a minute, my hands on her foot, her saree bunched up slightly around her legs.

It was close, almost tender, but we didn’t cross any line. I wanted her—God, I did—but this wasn’t about that. Not yet. It was I taking care of her and her letting me. I finished and sat back. “Rest it, okay? No walking for a bit,” I said, standing up.

She nodded again, pulling her saree over her legs properly. “You’re too good to me,” she said, her smile shy but real. I grinned back. “Someone’s gotta look after you,” I said, keeping it light. She laughed a little, and I felt that pull again—but I left it there.

Days passed, and things got better between me and my SIL. We started having fun chats—on the phone, in person, just laughing about everything. When she’s in her zone, wearing her dresses, sarees, night suits, whatever—it’s amazing. She’s gotten so comfortable with me.

Before, she’d always cover her chest with her dupatta or pallu. But now, when it’s just us, it slips to one shoulder, and she doesn’t fuss. I love it.

One day, it was the middle of the afternoon. My wife was at the office, and her husband was on a business trip. I was working from home, bored out of my mind. My SIL was home, too, working. I called her up. “Hey, what’re you doing?” I asked.

“Working,” she said, sounding tired. “You?”

“Same. I’m bored. You coming over, or should I come to you?” I teased.

She laughed. “Men should take the step, no?”

I cracked up. “Alright, I’m on my way.” I hung up, grabbed my keys, and rode over to her place. When I got there, we sat in her living room, laptops open, chatting while pretending to work. She was still in her night suit—light pink, soft fabric hugging her short, curvy body.

Her fair skin glowed, and those medium boobs looked perfect under the thin top. We’d gotten close lately, so this was normal now—just us, relaxed. She got up at one point, excited. “Wait, I have to show you something!”

She ran to her room and came back holding a new saree—black, a little transparent, stunning. “I bought this yesterday. What do you think?”

I grinned, leaning back. “It’s gorgeous. You’d look beautiful in it. Wear it!”

She shook her head, shy. “No, not now.”

“Come on, please? Wear it for me,” I begged, giving her my best puppy face.

She sighed. “Okay, fine.” She went to change and came back—oh man, she was an angel. The black saree draped over her like a dream, sheer enough to hint at her figure. Her blouse was tight, black too, showing off those round, perfect boobs.

Her navel stayed hidden, but the way she carried herself, that aura—it was a killer. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“You look… wow,” I said, standing up. “Seriously, why didn’t I meet you before your sister?”

She frowned a little, playful but firm. “Sohail, don’t say that.”

I laughed it off. “Alright, alright. Let me take some photos. If you like them, keep them. If not, I’ll hide them in a secret folder.” She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Why photos?” she asked.

“Just for fun, come on. Please?” I begged again. She sighed, not a strict “no” this time. “Okay, fine.”

I grabbed my phone, and she started posing—simple stuff at first, smiling, turning a little. Then, there were some accidental hot ones—her pallu slipped, showing that white waist against the black blouse. The combo was unreal—smooth skin, curves popping.

“You’re a natural,” I said, snapping away. “Try some poses for me? Nothing crazy, I promise. I know my limits.

I’m fit and handsome. I got four packs, not six full, but I look good. “I’ve got an idea,” I said, grinning. “A pose you’ll love, but we can’t show anyone. If you hate it, I’ll delete it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What pose?”

I grabbed my Bluetooth selfie stick and set it up across the room. “Look, we’re good friends now, right? Comfortable with each other. It’s just a fun thing in my head. You stand on that stool to match my height, and I’ll be behind you—like a builder pose, flexing my biceps.”

She nodded slowly. “And?”

I scratched my neck, smirking. “I’ll take off my T-shirt. It’ll look like your waist is covering mine, but not fully—just a cool shot.”

Her eyes went wide. “What? No, no, I can’t see you shirtless!”

I fake-pouted. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but… how can I see you like that?” she said, blushing hard.

“Why not? If you don’t like it, we will delete it. Promise.” We went back and forth, her arguing, me teasing, until she finally caved. “Fine, yes, but just this!”

I grinned, pulling my t-shirt up slowly on purpose, flexing so it got stuck halfway. She sneaky-peeked, her eyes flicking to my chest. “Need help?” she mumbled, stepping closer. Her fingers brushed my back—soft, warm—and she tugged the shirt off.

When it dropped, she stared. “Oh my God,” she whispered, then caught herself, looking away quickly. She didn’t say more, holding that line she wouldn’t cross. I stepped behind her, bare chest close but not touching. She stood on the stool, black saree shimmering.

I flexed, and we took the shot. She hopped down, checked the pic, and laughed. “It’s funny! Looks good.”

“See? Told you. But it’d be perfect if…” I hesitated, then said, “If you drop your pallu, let it fall. Just for the shot.”

She stared at me. “Are you mad? Go put your t-shirt on!”

“Think about it,” I said, stepping closer. “It’s your phone—we’re using your camera. If you hate it, delete it. No risk.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, but I could see her thinking. I put my hands on her shoulders, soft but firm, and looked into her eyes.

“Neha, I’ve known you for a year. I’ve never seen you this happy. You’re smiling today, glowing, and I love it. These days, it’s all about you—your laugh, making sure you don’t get hurt. You’ve got a beautiful heart, and you’re so damn nice. I want to see you happy every day.”

Her eyes got shiny, and one tear slipped out. “Sohail…” she whispered, voice shaky. “I didn’t know you could be so… this.”

I smiled, brushing her cheek. “Can I help with the pallu?” She was still lost in thought, then nodded slowly. “Yes.” I unpinned it gently, letting the black fabric slide to the floor. “Lower the saree a bit?” I asked, my voice low.

She didn’t say anything—just pulled the saree down a bit, showing her navel, so nice and perfect on her white skin. I set the camera again, stood behind her, and couldn’t stop myself—I put my arms around her stomach, pulling her close. Her skin felt warm against my chest, so soft it made me crazy.

I moved her hair away and kissed her shoulder, just lightly. She got stiff. “Sohail, what are you doing?” she said quietly, pushing back a little. “Shhh,” I said, turning her to face me slowly. My finger went down her neck, over her collarbone.

It went along her blouse where her boobs showed a bit, then to her navel, circling it. She breathed fast, eyes big. I got close, almost kissing her, but stopped. She was shaking, and I could feel her so near.

“You’re scared,” I said, smiling a little. “Why?”

She looked down, her face red. “Sohail, we can’t… You know it’s wrong,” she said softly, but she didn’t move away. Her pallu was still on the floor, saree low, blouse tight on her boobs. She looked so good, breathing quickly.

I laughed easily. “Don’t worry, I’m just playing. We’re friends, right? Having fun.” I stepped closer, my chest almost touching her. I took her hand and put it on my shoulder. “Feel that? I work hard for these muscles. Like it?”

She smiled, shy but real, and pulled her hand back fast. “You’re silly,” she said, laughing a little. “So strong, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, flexing my arm. “Took months! You think it’s good?” I wanted her to talk and connect with me.

She nodded, peeking at my chest. “It’s nice. But put your shirt on!” she said, teasing now.

“Nah, not yet,” I said, grinning. “You’re smiling—I like that.” I reached out and pushed her hair behind her ear, my fingers touching her soft cheek. “You’re pretty when you’re shy.” She didn’t move; she just looked at me, her eyes soft. “You okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, real quiet. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Someone has to be,” I said, looking at her closely. “We’re good together, no? Talking, laughing.” My hand stayed on her arm, light, and she didn’t pull away. “I like being with you,” I said.

She smiled slightly. “Me too,” she said, so soft I almost missed it. We stood there, her so close, her skin warm under my fingers. It felt good like we were really something.

Then I went for it. I leaned in, and we kissed—soft first, her lips warm and sweet. It got deeper and stronger. My hands on her back, pulling her to me. I pressed her waist. She moaned.

She kissed me back, hands on my chest, for five minutes, caressing my back, my fingers pressing in, her body against mine.

Then she pushed me away hard. “Stop! What are we doing? This is wrong!” she said, her voice breaking and her eyes wet. “Go, please!”

I got mad, breathing heavily. “If you can’t fight for your happiness, then fine—I don’t care.” I grabbed my shirt and left, heart pounding, her taste still on my lips.