Forbidden Passion: A Tale of Intimacy and Desire in Ujjain

I froze, my face burning. “Didi, I… it’s nothing, I swear!”

“Nothing?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Delete it. Now. Or I’m telling Bua.”

I fumbled, moving the files to the recycle bin, my mind racing. But later, when she called me to fix a game on her laptop, I saw something that flipped the script. My folder—the one I’d “deleted”—was on *her* laptop, copied in full. My Didi, my perfect Didi, had taken it for herself. The realization hit me like lightning: she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed.

That night, after dinner, we sat close on the couch, the TV flickering in the dim room. It was nearly 11, the world outside silent. I took a chance, my voice low. “Didi, why’s my folder on your laptop?”

She flinched, her cheeks flushing. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on,” I pressed, leaning closer. “I saw it. You copied everything.”

Her eyes welled up, and she crumbled, her voice barely a whisper. “Ashu, I… I’ve been so lonely. My marriage was a nightmare. He never loved me, never touched me with care. I just… I needed something.”