This is my first work, and it took me months for this script, so a feedback on my work will be most appreciated
Aamir had always watched her from afar Nikita, the woman next door. She was graceful in a way that didn't try to be. The kind of woman who didn't just walk she moved like she owned the space around her. Tall, toned, with curves that filled out her sarees just right, and a waist that looked made to be held. Her long hair always smelled faintly of sandalwood when the wind blew just right.
She was 31. Married. But her husband had been out of the picture for over a year serving time in a UAE jail for some business fraud no one talked about anymore. And ever since, her house had been quiet. Just her and her elderly mother-in-law, tucked away in that big two-story home like ghosts of a past life.
Aamir was 19. Handsome in that fresh, sharp way of youth--broad shoulders, lean build, neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that held back more than they revealed. He caught her watching him sometimes, from behind those half-drawn curtains, or while watering the tulsi plant on her veranda. Their eyes would meet. She'd always look away first.
But the air between them had changed lately. It wasn't just glances anymore. It was longer looks. Lingering silences. And then came the moment that broke the wait.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. The streets outside were still, buzzing with the sound of ceiling fans and distant temple bells. Aamir walked into her open gate like he'd done a hundred times as a kid. But this time, there was no excuse. No message to deliver. No errand from his mother.
He found her in the backyard, dressed in a simple white saree, wet at the hem from washing clothes. She turned when she heard him, arching an eyebrow, half-smiling.
"Everything alright?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her--really looked at her. The way the sunlight made her skin glow, the dampness on her collarbone, the curve of her hip as she shifted slightly.
"I want you," he said finally, voice low but steady.
Nikita didn't move. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she wasn't sure if she'd heard right--or maybe she had, and was waiting to see if he'd backtrack.
But he didn't.
"I've wanted you for a long time," he added, stepping closer. "I know you feel it too."
Her breath caught just a little. Then, slowly, she set the bucket down, wiped her hands on the edge of her saree, and looked him dead in the eye.
"You sure you know what you're asking for, Aamir?"
He nodded. "Yes."
She stared at him for a long, silent beat--then reached out, curled her fingers into his shirt, and pulled him inside the house.
The gate clicked shut behind them.
BALCONY HEAT
It started with a glance from the balcony--Aamir looking up, Nikita looking down, both burning with need. Her MIL had gone to the temple. The house was quiet. The moment was ripe.
She waved him up, breath shaky, heart pounding. The second he stepped in, she grabbed his hand and led him straight to her room. No words. Just fire.
She shut the door. He turned--and her lips were on his, hungry, aching. Saree fell, his shirt ripped open. Within seconds, they were naked, skin to skin, heat crackling between them.
Nikita's body was everything he'd imagined and more--soft curves, tight waist, a woman's form built to tempt. She was desperate, dripping, starved.
He dropped to his knees, tasting her like a man possessed. Her legs trembled, thighs clenched around his head. She screamed his name as her body squirted from his tongue--shaking, gasping, lost in it.
"Enough," she panted, pulling him up, nails raking down his back. "Stick it in. Now."
He hesitated, just for a second--then buried himself inside her.
She cried out--not in pain, but in relief. Finally. Full. Stretching her deep, hitting every spot she'd been craving.
He thrust harder. Faster. Her moans filled the room--wild, unfiltered. Sweat dripped. Skin slapped. She wrapped her legs around him, locking him in.
"I'm close," he groaned, trying to pull back.
"Don't," she begged. "Finish inside. I need it."
One last thrust. He burst inside her, groaning as her walls clenched around him, milking him dry.
They stayed locked like that, panting, shaking--used, satisfied, and soaked in sin.
Nikita had transformed. What began as hidden glances had turned into full-blown obsession. She wasn't just craving Aamir anymore--she was addicted. The moment her MIL's back was turned, she wanted him. In the kitchen, the bathroom, even when she was on a call--his touch lingered like fire under her skin.
She'd set up the balcony room for him now--quiet, tucked away, the perfect hideout. Mattress, bedsheets, curtains drawn. No one questioned it. Not even her MIL, who assumed it was for a "tenant boy" from her brother's side.
But Nikita knew. That room was her sin chamber.
One night, lying beside her snoring MIL, she couldn't take it. Her thighs were soaked, heart racing. She reached under her saree and touched herself--slow circles, imagining his tongue, his thick cock splitting her open.
