That night was unforgettable--for all the wrong reasons.
Yes, it had been incredible. Shocking. Intense.
But I couldn't sleep.
Not a second. I didn't go to her room.
And she didn't come to find me.
I understood.
She had given herself to me in a way most never would--playfully, fully, lovingly.
And I... I crossed a line.
I wanted too much, too fast.
I mistook her boldness for boundlessness.
I ruined something sacred.
All night, I sat there alone, eyes fixed on the video we had shot.
Her laughter while stripping, the way her body danced for me, how her lips worked me on my dick with that gleam in her eyes--so confident, so giving.
I paused it again and again, not out of lust anymore... but guilt.
She was doing it for me.
And I was packaging it for someone else.
I was editing the video for Santaji--blurred the face, softened the light, gave it that "forbidden yet pure" look that I knew he'd crave.
Her milky, full breasts framed with shadows--teasing, never crude. Just enough to haunt a man's sleep.
I told myself it was art. Told myself it was for money.
Told myself Santaji bhau needed it.
But at one point I just sat there, hand frozen on the mouse, whispering to no one,
"What the hell am I doing?"
Giving Appa's body--my Appa--to another man?
But money has a way of numbing morality.
And as I kept editing, time dissolved. Dawn began to break.
I quietly crept toward the bedroom door, pushed it open an inch.
She was there, fast asleep. Wearing my white T-shirt, barely covering anything. A white cotton panty hugging her ass curves, her leg draped lazily over the sheets like she belonged to no one but herself.
She looked peaceful.
Untouched.
Unaware.
I didn't go in.
I just stood there for a moment, breathing her in.
Then turned away, headed to the bathroom, showered off the guilt...
and rushed to the garage like a coward.
I had already texted Santaji:
"Surprise is ready. But price's gone up."
By the time I reached the garage, the place was empty--just me, the morning chill, and a stray dog mounting a bitch near the shutter.
For a second, I stared.
Instinct. Raw. Animal.
Almost poetic.
So I took a quick video of that too--"for the boys," I thought with a smirk.
Soon, I heard the familiar thump-thump of his Bullet. Santaji rolled in like a desi don, parked, and handed me a greasy plastic bag.
"Special nasta laya hoon. Kheema pav. Chal, dikha trailer."
I didn't waste time.
I played the teaser on my phone--the edited version of her, the soft blurs, the bounce, the tease, the curve of her breasts like poetry in slow motion.
His reaction was instant.
"Aree yeh toh kamaal hai...kya gori gaand hai. Gujrati? Marwadi?"
He squinted, trying to decode her.
I laughed, exaggerated it--"Bang on, bhau. You've got an eye like a customs officer."
He puffed his chest. Loved the compliment.
"Pura video de na ab. De na dek kya raha hai?"
I smiled. "Full drop will cost you--₹2000, one beer, and biryani this noon."
He didn't blink. "Done."
The rest of the day?
It was like a private screening at a one-man film fest.
Santaji must've jerked off six times--appreciating every inch of her.
"Her ass is magic," he said. "The way you smacked it--uff. Next time, bite it. Get that on camera." He was enjoying it with baadshas rap song "bum tera gote khai kamar pe teri butterfly"
I laughed but my heart was heavy.
I was praying... hoping this wouldn't be the first and last video.
Hoping things with Appa weren't broken beyond repair.
But Bhau was on another trip.
"Bhai... she's a mother, isn't she? That kind of milky fullness--uff. So much jaan."
I nodded, forcing a smile. "You're basically Gems Bond, bhau. Next level."
He chuckled, proud of himself.
His favourite detail?
