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The Lonavala trip wrapped up without any big explosions, but the vibes from that dance lingered like smoke after a fire. Back in Mumbai, things at the flat shifted gears, slow at first but picking up speed. Neha started crashing over more often, and Vikrant was always around, the three of us hanging like old times but with this undercurrent of tension that had me on edge constantly. She’d wear those tiny shorts and tanks around the house, her long legs stretched out on the couch, ponytail swinging as she laughed at his dumb jokes. I’d catch them touching more freely now, like it was no big deal after that party grind.
It started small, like Vikrant slapping her ass jokingly when she bent over to pick up a remote from the floor. “Nice view,” he’d say with a wink, his hand lingering a second on her curve before she swatted it away giggling. “You’re such a perv,” she’d shoot back, but her dimple would show, and she’d glance at me to see if I was watching. I was, every time, that knot in my stomach twisting with humiliation and heat. Or they’d pass lewd comments during movie nights, her commenting on some actor’s abs and him saying something like “Bet you’d look better on top of me than that guy,” all casual while munching popcorn. She’d blush but fire back, “In your dreams, big boy,” her hand brushing his thigh as she reached for the bowl.
Kisses on the cheeks became a thing too, like greetings or goodbyes, but drawn out. He’d pull her in for a hug, his arms around her waist, and plant one on her cheek, close to her lips, holding it a beat too long. She’d return it, her full lips pressing soft, sometimes turning it into a quick peck war that left them both laughing.
I felt like an outsider in my own place, watching my best friend handle my girl like she was his toy, but Neha ate it up, her eyes sparkling, body leaning into him more each time. We’d fuck after, her whispering how his touches made her wet, me pounding harder imagining it going further. Then came the bathrobe incident that cranked it up.
It was a lazy Sunday morning after a late night out. Neha had just showered, coming out in my old bathrobe that was a bit loose on her slim frame, hair wet and dripping, no makeup but looking fresh and sexy with that post-shower glow. We were all in the kitchen making chai, joking around. Vikrant was teasing her about being a slowpoke in the bathroom, and she stuck her tongue out at him. Out of nowhere, he scooped her up like she weighed nothing, lifting her high in a bear hug joke, spinning her around. “Gotcha, lightweight!”
The robe slipped in the chaos, the belt loosening just enough. For a few seconds, as he held her up, the front gaped open, flashing her perky boobs right there in the kitchen light. Full view, nipples hard from the cool air, her fair skin contrasting with the tan lines from the trip. She squealed, laughing as she tried to pull it closed, but he didn’t put her down right away, his eyes dropping for a split second with that smirk. “Whoops, free show,” he chuckled, finally setting her feet on the floor. She tied the robe quick, face red but grinning ear to ear. “You asshole, that was on purpose!” she said, punching his arm lightly, but there was no real anger, just that flirty energy. I stood there frozen, mug in hand, feeling the humiliation burn through me like acid. My girl, exposed like that because of him manhandling her rough, and everyone just laughing it off like a prank. But Neha? She loved it, I could tell by the way her breath came quicker, her big brown eyes meeting mine with that mix of apology and excitement.
After that, Vikrant got bolder, like he owned a piece of her now. He’d claim her casually, anytime he wanted. Like pulling her onto his lap during a game on the couch, saying flirty things, his hands on her hips as she squirmed but stayed put, ass grinding lightly against him “by accident.” Or in the evenings, he’d text her directly for stuff, bypassing me, like “Wear that tight top tonight, looks hot on you.” She’d show me the messages, asking if it was too much, but we’d both know it wasn’t stopping. He’d touch her freely now, in the kitchen while cooking, in card games, a hand on her lower back guiding her through doors, or slapping her ass again in the hallway, harder this time, leaving a light red mark she’d show me later in bed. “He thinks he can just take what he wants,” she’d murmur, but her voice was husky, turned on by his rough treatment. I felt smaller each time, humiliated seeing her respond to him like that, but it fueled our nights, her telling me how his strength made her feel desired in a way that drove me wild with jealousy.
It was like he was staking his claim, treating her as if she was there for his perusal anytime, and she didn’t push back hard, loving the attention. The slow burn was turning into a flame, and I wondered how long before it consumed us all.
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