Front- Seat Souvenir

The morning after the hotel night still felt like a fever dream. Kiran could still taste jiju on her tongue, could still feel the ghost of his fingers digging bruises into her hips while she was bent over the backseat, tits swinging free, moaning like a cheap porn clip. Vikram had driven them the whole way—steady hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror every time jiju told her to “open wider, baby.” She’d come twice with Vikram’s reflection watching, and once more when jiju shoved her head down and finished in her mouth. The driver had never said a word, but the bulge in his khaki trousers had been impossible to miss.Now it was barely nine a.m. and the entire family was scattered—husband off on calls, jiju vanished to some meeting, in-laws at a temple run. Kiran remembered the long list of “little gifts and spices her mother-in-law had rattled off the night before. Someone had to go to the old market, an hour out of town. Guess who drew the short straw.She threw on the first thing her hands touched: soft grey track pants that hugged her ass and a thin white T-shirt. Plain cotton bra underneath, nothing fancy. Her nipples were still sensitive from jiju’s teeth, poking against the fabric the second the lobby AC kissed her skin. Hair in a messy bun, sunglasses on, she marched out to the porte-cochère.Vikram was already there, leaning against the white Fortuner, uniform crisp, sleeves rolled up to show thick forearms, sunglasses hiding whatever was going on in his head. He opened the rear door out of habit. She shook her head.“Back seat’s going to be full of bags. I’ll sit in front.”He gave the tiniest nod, shut the door, and walked around and opened the front instead. She caught the flicker of his eyes over her chest as she slid in. Seatbelt clicked between her breasts, pressing the cotton tighter. He shut the door, walked around slowly, got in. Engine purred to life.The drive to the market was quiet except for the radio playing some old Kumar Sanu song. Kiran kept her thighs pressed together, pretending the throb between her legs was just leftover from last night. Vikram drove like nothing had happened, but every time they stopped at a signal she felt his gaze slide sideways, lingering on the swell of side-boob the seatbelt created.By the time they reached the crowded bazaar, the sun was already brutal. They loaded the boot until it groaned—packets of whole spices, Alphonso mango crates, brass diyas, silk scarves, random knick-knacks the relatives back home had demanded. Back seat piled high. No chance she was climbing over all that.She wiped sweat off her forehead and got into the front again. Vikram slammed the boot, walked around, paused with his hand on the door handle, looked at her through the glass. She raised an eyebrow. He got in.Engine on. AC blasting cold air. Windows up. Silence.Then she saw it—his eyes flicking down every few seconds, quick but greedy. The T-shirt had ridden up a little; a strip of stomach showed. Seatbelt cut right across her nipples.She laughed under her breath. “Itne acche lag rahe hain kya, jo chupke-chupke ghoor rahe ho? Kal to mirror mein khul ke dekh liye the na.”He didn’t blush. Didn’t look away. Just let a slow grin spread. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick.“Bhabhi, kal to reflection tha. Aaj real hai. Aur sir ne bilkul sahi kaha tha—aise size aur shape maine zindagi mein nahi dekhe.”The words landed straight between her legs like a slap. Heat flooded her. She shifted, thighs rubbing.“Achha?” she said, voice lower. “Saamne se dekhna hai?”He glanced at the road, then back at her. “Haan. Kal wale style mein. Bina kapdon ke.”Her heart slammed against her ribs. She looked out the windshield—open highway, fields on both sides, heat waves shimmering.“Koi sunsaan jagah dhoondho,” she said. “Gadi rok do.”He didn’t ask if she was sure. Just indicated left and took the next muddy turn-off that disappeared between tall grass and sal trees. Dust kicked up behind them. A hundred metres in, the track narrowed; branches scraped the roof. He killed the engine. Sudden quiet, just cicadas and their breathing.Kiran was already pulling the T-shirt over her head. White cotton landed on the dashboard. She reached back for the bra clasp; his hands beat her to it.“Mujhe kholne do na, bhabhi,” he muttered, voice rough.The bra snapped open. Cups fell away. Cool AC air hit her bare breasts; nipples tightened instantly. He groaned low, cupped them, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks. Then his mouth was on hers—hungry, no gentle warm-up. Tongue pushing in, tasting her like he’d waited years. She kissed back just as filthy, biting his lower lip.He broke the kiss only to drop his head, sucking one nipple hard, teeth grazing. His free hand shoved straight into her track pants, past the elastic of her panties, fingers sliding through slick folds.“Fuck, bhabhi… itni geeli?”She couldn’t answer—just spread her legs wider, one foot up on the dashboard. Two thick fingers pushed inside, curled, stroked that spot that made her back arch. She moaned into his hair.Her own hands were busy—belt, button, zipper. She dragged his cock out—hot, heavy, darker than jiju’s, a fat vein running along the underside. Pre-cum already beading at the tip. She bent sideways over the console, took him deep in one go. He hissed, hips jerking. She sucked like she was starving—tongue swirling the head, cheeks hollow, hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. He lasted maybe ninety seconds before he gripped her hair and spilled down her throat, thick pulses she swallowed greedily.He sagged back, panting. “Bhabhi… chale ab?”She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and laughed, shaky. “Abhi kahan.”Track pants and panties shoved down and kicked off in one clumsy motion. She climbed over the console, knees on either side of him, steering wheel hard against her spine. Reached between them, lined him up—he was still rock-hard—and sank down slow.The stretch was perfect. Bare, hot, slick from her mouth and her own wetness. She exhaled a broken “haaa” when he bottomed out. His hands gripped her ass, spreading her.Then she started riding—slow rolls of her hips at first, then faster, harder. Tits bouncing in his face. He latched onto a nipple again, sucking in time with every bounce. The car rocked on its shocks; suspension creaked. Windows fogged. Somewhere outside a peacock called.She ground her clit against his pubic bone on every down-stroke, chasing it. He slipped a hand between them, thumb rubbing tight circles. That pushed her over—orgasm crashed hard, pussy clamping around him, milking. She bit his shoulder to muffle the scream.He growled, slammed up once, twice, and came again—deep, hot pulses filling her until she felt it leak out around his cock and drip down his balls onto the leather seat.They stayed locked together, breathing ragged. Sweat glued skin to skin. He brushed damp hair off her forehead, voice hoarse.“Bhabhi… bra mujhe rakhne do? Yaad rahega.”She laughed breathlessly, reached down to the floor mat, picked up the crumpled cotton bra still warm from her body. Dropped it in his lap.“Souvenir le lo. Dhone mat dena.”He tucked it carefully into his shirt pocket, right over his heart.Engine started again. She tugged the T-shirt back on—nothing underneath now, nipples dark against white fabric, wet patches where his mouth had been. The drive back was silent except for the low music and the thick smell of sex. Every bump in the road made more of his cum slide out of her, soaking the seat beneath her thighs.When they rolled into the hotel porch twenty minutes later, Vikram opened her door like the perfect driver, face blank. Only the bra-shaped lump in his pocket and the wet patch on the passenger seat gave them away.Kiran stepped out, legs still trembling, and gave him a small, wicked smile.“Kal subah bhi market jaana hai,” she said. “Taiyaar rehna.”He touched the brim of his cap. “Ji, bhabhi.And somewhere inside his pocket, her bra still smelled like her skin and his cum.