Posts Tagged ‘Sexy’

Good News, everyone,  I found the perfect Bhabhi!

Before I unveil who she is, let me take a moment, on this auspicious Mahashivratri day, to explain in a few inadequate words, the concept of Bhabhi.

Who is a Bhabhi? 

A Bhabhi (always with a capital ‘B’) is a near-mythical creature existing in the minds of several Indian men of a certain age group, almost always associated with a curious mix of respectfulness and seductiveness. 

The concept of Bhabhi springs from the eternal human longing for incest, a longing certainly undiminished by the peculiar Indian cultural response towards anything sexual.

Who are the women closest to a typical horny young male? Mother, sisters, assorted cousins, and bhabhis. Now, every guy has his Bhabhi, from this group of bhabhis. The first three related by blood, but the Bhabhi? Someone from the outside, related only by marriage. Not very much older to you, but still not nearly as young as you. A Bhabhi is ‘safe’.

A Bhabhi is real, someone you can touch. Someone, whom you know has experience touching another man in his special place, in special ways. Someone who has been touched too, and not gently, you presume. You even hear them, sometimes.

However,  The Bhabhi, in this scenario, is unsatisfied, or not satisfied enough with her sex life. While everything on the surface might be going swimmingly well, whether she’s married to the most average guy in the city or the richest/handsomest dude in town, there are deep cravings within her that need to be satisfied. And fortunately for everyone, you have been given this special insight into this burden she bears, and you alone can bear it in the most manly way possible. (Sidebar: This was also why the Savita Bhabhi comics worked so brilliantly. They captured the essence of the Bhabhi in the body of a supermodel.)

Even more importantly – The Bhabhi, on her part, understands what your needs are, and considers it a part of her duties to relieve you. No matter if she feels guilty about it, no matter if that’s not what she knows is the right thing to do. If she’s going to be a part of this family, then goddammit, everyone’s going to be happy, if she can help it. And help it she can.

This works brilliantly both ways. Both of you, then, can fuck each other’s brains out, out of nothing more than this impersonal, heroic sense of duty.

The Bhabhi, has to be beautiful, but in a cute kind of way, rather than a hot kind of way. Approaching cute women is of course easier for you than approaching hot women. She had slimmed down for her marriage, but the weight’s coming back, and she knows it. Her husband must be a trier. He tries, and tries so hard, but he knows it, and she knows it, that he just doesn’t do it for her. This helps too. Its not really cheating, if the husband doesn’t even belong in the game, is it?

So who is this Bhabhi, who has made me stop looking, because dammit they broke the mould after she climbed out of it?


This lady, from the assorted Crompton Greaves ads.

Now, this is a slightly misleading pic. And this isn’t the ad where I sat, slightly agog, through 20 seconds of stunning  Perfect Bhabhi-ness. For real, I didn’t realize myself what the hell just happened. Only after I settled down for a bit did I realize that I had seen the Perfect-est Bhabhi ever.

That was this ad:

Just look at it! It encapsulates everything perfectly!

When we first see her, she’s thinking “Why’s he buying stuff for the house? He doesn’t know jack about what goes in this house. Has to be related to money, or maybe that nice Sindian guy told him about it. I like that guy, he always treats Mrs. ST so well. And she always looks so goddamned happy in the mornings… I wonder what they get up to?”

Anyways, moving on, she asks him, Have prices fallen so much that YOU have condescended to buy stuff for the house?


This moment – captured above – was when I realized I was onto something very special. You know how? There’s this favorite ratio of mine – Boob Size-to-Stomach Rolls – which is a trademarked ratio, of course, and as soon as I saw this, it just clicked. This is THE ideal BSSR ratio for the Perfect Bhabhi.

And just like that, I was hooked.

Next, in a typical husbandly manoeuvre, he asks her to guess. And she does this:



No one. Also, close-up BSSR.

She blurts out a number. It doesn’t matter what it is. From the time it takes her to give that look, to the time of her first guess, she realizes – at least he’s done this. At least he’s gotten some thing for this house, this room, which we share. Something where I did not need to nag him for days.

Against all her best instincts, her hopes begin to rise.

She’s almost… happy?


Before the inevitable, crushing realization. He’s just got one – for himself, for his side of the bed.

She pretends to laugh, and bends forward, so he cannot see her eyes.


And her clueless husband smiles, maybe even congratulating himself.


But you know… And I know. The truth cannot hide.

Come Bhabhi, come. Let us perform our respective duties, and let us not dither.



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But I’ve held this post inside me for more than a month now and I have finally succumbed to the temptation of putting it out here.

Attention: This post is to officially declare the end of ‘The Era of Emmanuelle’ as the Hottest Woman in The Sindian World and to congratulate her on a truly spectacular run.  Thank you for the memories, Ms. Chriqui.

Further, this post also anoints her successor, Ms. Nazanin Boniadi as the New Hottest Woman in The Sindian World. This post would also like to humbly submit that Ms. Boniadi should appoint a new agent because (a) she does not seem to be in nearly as many movies/roles as she should be and more importantly (b) she does not seem to be in nearly as many movies/roles that require her to lose her clothes as she should be.

And yes, I do have a thing for women of Middle Eastern descent with distinct accents, preferably English… Why do you ask?

No long-drawn out gyaan here. Enjoy…

Oh, and Ta.

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Yes, Hina Rabbani Khar, she of the perfect jawline, incredible features, glowering sultry looks, fashionable sunglasses, Birkin bags and perfectly coiffured salwar-suits, came and went. This isn’t about her.

This is about another Pakistani lady whom I happened to see via my other new love, Coke Studio. Her name is Meesha Shafi, and she’s the most sensual being I’ve seen for some time now, angular face, flaming lips, sapling-like arms, thin waist and all. Naturally, the question arises, Why?

I’m going to ask you to read this, before you go clicking on the link I’ve given below. Its one of my more-liked songs on CS, “Alif Allah” sung by Arif Lohar, accompanied by Meesha. When we see Meesha first, she’s just warming up, singing “ae we allah waaliyaan di jugni ji  (indeed, this is the Godly Ones’ Spirit-being)”, a humming, so to speak with minimal movements of her body, testing the waters of where the song would go. We also see a close-up of her face, eyes shut, immersing herself, getting the grooves right, synchronizing with the instruments, not letting it all out, holding some things back in.

And so on,

“ae we nabi paak di jugni ji (indeed, this is the Holy Prophet’s Spirit-being);

ae we maula ali waali jugni ji (indeed, this is the Spirit-being devoted to Ali, the Friend of God)

ae we mere peer di jugni ji (indeed, this is my Pir’s Spirit-being)

ae we sar-sabaz di jugni ji (indeed, this is the long-living Pir’s Spirit-being)”

All lines repeated twice, and by the end of the chorus, she’s into the song. She’s tested the waters, found it cold enough for her liking and now she’s wading in. The shoulders start rocking, back and forth and sideways, and the movements proceed to her legs, which don’t move but instead transmit it back to her shoulders which rock even more. All this, almost imperceptibly, through her waist and her bosom which is hidden and yet not. I’d wager she knows belly dancing. Or has studied it for a part somewhere, but she knows the basics. The trick in the movements of the waist lies in the legs, and in not moving them, which she executes to perfection here.

Moving on, at “dum gutkoon”, when the camera moves in for a close-up of her face, blood flows, and you know where. I am sure she never intended it to be a blowjob-face, but there’s nothing else I can think of for those few precious seconds.

The song is moving along nicely now, both singers have gotten into the groove completely and along with the orchestra, are making wonderful music. For the next couple of minutes, its a wonderful interplay between Arif and Meesha. Meesha moves, sideways and back and forth and with her eyes closed, singing, moving her lips. Now, I’m going to ask you to imagine. Meesha keeps her left hand on the microphone all the time and with her right hand, counts the beats or whatever it is that she does. Imagine the mic to be your cock and her fingers tapping on your balls. For the next few minutes, as she moves ever so closer, and then away and back to the front again, her mouth so tantalizingly close to your dick, it is as perfect an imaginary blowjob that I’d ever like to receive. Also, she never stops moving her body, you see, adding an element of urgency to the act.

At the 4:00 minute mark is one of my favorite parts of the song. Meesha breaks into a dazzling smile at Arif (there’s one more at 6:30), and this part is pivotal. Arif is a jolly good singer, but for me he’s just an add-on. His performance, for me, is like that of the clowns at a circus before the lion-tamer comes in to close the show. Except that here its a lioness and she’s not into the taming bit. Maybe, to put it a tad more generously and accurately, Arif’s the Santa Claus who’s given me the present of Meesha.

Just after that there’s a segment which, if you’re not into the whole blowjob thing yet, leaves you no option but to enter into it. Her actions are so exaggerated, so in your face (or on your cock, if you’d prefer) that its pretty hard for me to see this part without actually, you know, getting hard. But that’s just me, of course. Especially the places where she goes “Koiiii…”. And at 4:39, there’s a cocky smile which makes my heart skip a beat, every single time.

The best thing about the song (and when I say the song, I mean the song as well as Meesha’s performance in it, which for me are two separate yet interconnected things) is how well it flows and similarity to really good sex. Begins slowly, with the foreplay, gets into a good gear where everyone’s having fun and really enjoying it,  some girls looking on wanting to be in the middle of the action, a man who knows his craft, a woman who’s slutty yet sexy (and really flexible), lots of movement, slight changes in tempo for some spice, and to establish a base for the final push ahead, and then the final frantic rush, faster, faster and climax. Phew.

(Psst, go to this link, and see the BTS video of Alif Allah to catch a glimpse of Meesha in the most adorable glasses.)

However, for an unadulterated dose of Meesha’s sensuality,one must look further to the other song that she performed with CS, “Chori Chori”. This one has everything, the grind, the mic-holding (or cock-holding), the exaggerated red lipstick, the crooning voice and an overcast cloud of sexual tension. Enjoy!

One of the best pictures of Meesha I’ve found is this:

The almost-closed eyes, the half-smile, the sense of completion that comes from the pic, everything reminds me of post-coital bliss. Aahh, the joys of a great imagination, I tell you…

I hope you enjoyed listening and watching her as much as I did, in the way that I do. She is a complete sensual experience in herself.

I must end with the oft-asked question: Are there no non-beautiful women in Pakistan?

Look at that damn ridiculous necklace!


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You remember I did a post on Irina Sheik? No? Well, here you go. Go check, and come back. If you read the fine print, you’ll notice that I’d said that Irina was just the most beautiful woman in the world, not the hottest and that I’d be doing a post ‘soon’ on whoever that might be.

Well, wait no more, for here I fulfill my promise and hereby award the title of “Hottest Woman in the Sindian World” to…

So demure, so mind-blowingly pretty. Who is she, you ask? BLASPHEMY! She’s the very, very pretty and (I’m assuming) talented Ms. Emmanuelle Chriqui. As attested by her IMDB profile, she has acted in a few movies and is also on some TV show, which is supposed to be entertaining, or so I’m told. I first came across this beauty when I was watching the god-awful ‘You Don’t Mess With The Zohan’, a movie whose sole redeeming point is that she has a part in it.

As far as I’m concerned, her two main qualities are: 1. Looking pretty and 2. Wearing clothes that constantly threaten to expose her nipples. Go ahead, do that google search. Or let me simplify even that for you. Click here. See? Most of her clothes threaten to display her diamond-cutters, and sometimes they do taste victory, much to my delight. (Victories archived here and here)

The problem with her (and Irina) is that they are too beautiful for me to even begin to describe. And a particular problem with Emmanuelle (Yeah, I’m on first-name basis with her. In my mind. Your point?) is that her off-the-scale hotness does not exactly set the still photos on fire. To be convinced, you have to see her walking, talking, moving. Go ahead, you won’t be disappointed.

One of the best things about her is that she wears some ridiculous outfits with even more ridiculous hairstyles. You’ve clicked that link, right? Some of those are downright whacko. And yet, she manages to simultaneously expose a lot and still look dignified. And hot.And pretty. And hot.

In posts like these, there’s not much work for me to do except trying not to spoil it all for you. But before I leave, I’ll leave you with a couple of my favorite pics of her. (And the obligatory gallery and video of course)

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So that’s three titles now. Wonder who’ll come along to knock them off their perch.

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So I have this problem. I am extremely uncomfortable around the wife of a good friend. And yes, its that thing you’re thinking of. I know her for a couple of years now, him for more and what I thought would go away in time hasn’t. Instead it’s grown, like an insidious snake feasting on my weakness, it’s grown.

I can’t stand to be in the same  room with her and guess how I spent Holi? Fucking locked in a farmhouse with him, her and 10 others. Painting colors on each other and spending hours in a pool ‘playing’.

None of that was meant in a sexual way. Except that I have the hots for her of course. But I wanted to put this out there for my better understanding. I tried to avoid her as inconspicuously as I could. I only put some color on her when she came up to me. I avoided staring as much as I could but I wasn’t brusque; I just avoided making jokes or fooling around when she was around so as to not get into extended conversations. I doubt she noticed much. Her husband and me are great pals, but her and me have never really hung out, ever.

Don’t go fucking blaming me. Its the butt. Always lands me in trouble. I’m not even sure if I’m completely in lust with her. Its her butt. The firmest butt I’ve seen in my life. I’m telling you, you think the ones you’ve seen are firm, but they’re nothing compared to the one on her. Had to be on her, didn’t it? She looks like she could walk the ramp first thing in the morning, but I’ve never given that a second thought. Its her butt, and when you cover that with a thin layer of cloth (also called as pajamas; as in ” I’ll be wearing these pajamas to sleep when we’re all having a sleepover in a deserted farmhouse miles from civilization with my husband’s horny friend sneaking looks at my ass whenever I’m around.”)  the situation just becomes fucking perfect don’t it?

Yes I do. At least one specific part of you.

Let’s get this straight. I don’t want to ‘do’ anything. I love the guy as much as one straight guy can love another and the last thing I’d do is make a pass at his wife. But as much as I try, I have to steal a glance at her butt when I get the chance. Could I control it? Sure, I could. Would that lessen the lust in my mind? I’m pretty sure it’d not. What then would be the purpose of avoiding it?

Ladies, the 3 of you that do visit here, do women know when men like me are around? I’m *trying* to do the right thing here. This incident paints me in a very poor light I suppose, but I assure you it wasn’t intentional in any way. It was a classic case of the thunderbolt that happened the first time I happened to see her butt. And if you’ve read my earlier posts you know I’m a Class-A Ass Purveyor.

I give up. I was trying to inject some sense into this whole thing, but there’s too much confusion. And I’ve never been one for high thinking. The baser pleasures, that’s where I reside. Maybe if I avoid them for some time, she’ll get pregnant and I can safely put this behind me.


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My dearest Penney,

You must forgive me if I’ve taken longer than what is deemed polite in replying to your last letter. Although “Go ahead, you sick bastard” was not the kind of encouragement I was looking for, I must confess to being emboldened by the fact that you replied at all. Without further ado, as they say, pray let me proceed.

No doubt you remember where we left off in our last correspondence. You wouldn’t let me press forward, as if I could even begin to take control of this night. You sat me down on the couch, and put a finger to my lips. “Stay“, you said and I sat on the couch, expectant. I don’t think you spoke another word that night, not in my dream at least. You unzipped my pants, not unbuttoned them. Not for me was destined the pleasure of feeling your hands on my skin. No, YOU would give ME the gift of feeling your skin, your perfect little round breasts, your painfully erotic ass; YOU would bestow upon me the gift of taking pleasure from your body that I’ve desired for years;YOU would decide what MY body could or could not do, but YOU would remain above it all; YOU wouldn’t take pleasure, not physically, all your pleasure would be derived from the fact that you owned another human being blood, body and soul. You desired control, desired a slave and I was more than happy to give the former and be the latter. You are my goddess, goddess; my embodiment of perfection and that way you’ll forever stay.

As you unzipped my pants, I wondered for a second, “Why?” and then, as my cock sprang out into the cool air of the night, all thoughts vanished. Madam, my cock will be the most grateful thing that your mouth will ever feel, bar none. Now, I realize that handing out compliments might be a tad superfluous at this point, but what a tongue! What devilish control! Not a stroke less, not a lick more. Your mouth, madam, is velvet. With a tongue as smooth as a baby’s bottom, you worked my shaft with a gusto I was unprepared for. There were times when I thought I could hold myself back no longer and that I’d disappoint you by erupting so soon, but the expert way in which you felt, felt the tension rising at those moments and diverted yourself to gamely trying to swallow my testicles is beyond my power to describe.

As your mouth transposed my brain to levels of pleasure hitherto unfelt, and the only sound in the room was of lips smacking on flesh, I was delivered. No my lady, I don’t mean that in the crude physical sense of the word, but rather as an unshackling of every chain that had held me back previously, bar one – yours. I moaned, I groaned, I even shouted your name. Gods were invoked, thanked and forgotten again. The world could’ve ended that night, at that moment even and I couldn’t have cared less. “I’m coming”, I groaned. You continued to swallow my cock with such dexterity that I couldn’t find the base of my cock even if I wanted to. “This isn’t like the earlier ones, I won’t be able to stop.” You didn’t even look up at me. As you played with my balls, and simultaneously sucked me dry with your mouth and pumped me with your fist, I realized this time you didn’t want me to stop. Which meant you wanted me to come. Add to this the fact that my cock was still entrenched within your mouth, and there was only one conclusion: You’d swallow.

Forgive me for confessing this, but all the excellent work done by your tongue and your mouth did not count for an ant’s puny ass as the fact that I realized that you’d swallow; BY GOD, YOU’D SWALLOW! And in that instant, I came. Like I’ve never come before; torrents of cum, deposited deep inside you. Wave after wave after wave. I swear, at that moment, I thought I’d never stop coming.  You wouldn’t let my dick out even after I stopped, to me it seemed as if you were determined to leave nothing inside of me. A minute passed, an hour passed. I don’t remember. What I do remember is your brilliant grin as you looked up at me. I was slumped in the couch, and you slowly stood up and kissed me on the forehead. Was your veneer of control slipping?

But my lady, if you want me to answer that, I must insist on you responding to me. Even a word from you will do splendidly.

Till then, with all my heart, I await your response.

Truly yours,


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Dear Penney,

How have you been?  We don’t normally talk, do we? That’s putting it a little mildly; we never talk. How many years has it been, four? Most of what I write below might seem outrageous to you, vulgar even, but I hope you find it in your heart to not forever be disgusted.

Have I ever told you I remember exactly what you were wearing, the first time I saw you, all those many years ago? I’d been told to expect you in my class. Half the guys in college wanted to shift to our class, solely because you were in it. I’d heard tales upon tall tales of how incredibly beautiful you were. And the contrarian prick that I was, I was determined to not like you. Not anything personal of course, but I was determined to not be taken in by you and your famed beauty, regardless of whether it was conventional, old-school or avant garde.

In true diva-style you didn’t turn up for the first three days. And then on the fourth, there you were. Wearing that blue top and skinny jeans with those outrageously large, circular earrings I’ll never forget. And I went all……Meh. I genuinely did not feel that you justified the hype surrounding you. Little did I know that I had caught you on your one bad day in the entire fornicating decade.

We worked together for some time, for that thing that time. And I swear, the first day I found out we’d be together, I swore I wouldn’t think of you in a sexual way, in any way other than as a co-worker, and for two years, barring the odd stray thought or two, I never did. That reminds me, I have to thank you for that, for I never figured you were training me. No, I don’t mean that I had to work again with a co-worker who was as beautifully, perfectly sculpted as you are; because lets face it, what are the chances that I could be as insanely lucky as to find a co-worker as hot as you again? Its just that I had to train this slim, big-bosomed young thing for a year, and the two years I spent talking straight to your face (and into your forehead) really paid off.

I seem to be rambling again, don’t I? You really must form your opinion on me based on hearsay, rather than the few feeble attempts at wisecracking I attempt in your presence because generally, I’m not half as bad as I seem to be in front of you. And there I go again!

Getting to the point, the entire aim of writing this missive is because you deemed it fit to appear in an extremely provocative and god-bless-your-delicate-little-breasts, massively cock-raising dream I had the other day. True to form, you did make what I am positive will be a once in a lifetime appearance during this, but I’d rather not complain. Such memories, illusory as they may be, do tend to stick around, and I have relived the dream enough times hence to be reasonably sure that I will not be forgetting this in a hurry.

You’re curious. Morbidly, but curious nonetheless. Let me lay it out for you then. By some random circumstance, you and me are on a date. A quiet, home-grown date. This song, one of your favorites, I know, plays in the background. A dainty meal graces the table, set in the middle of my living room. A small square table, with just enough space for the breads and the red wine. A red tablecloth, maroon almost. Now, I don’t drink of course, but to imagine such a meal without wine on your lips would be a travesty, and for all my failings, travesties are not what I commit in such situations.

We’re smiling, too. Later, I will feel surprise on this rather unusual occurrence but at the moment, it seems like the perfect thing to do. Why shouldn’t we be smiling? Why shouldn’t we be passing on the bread-basket and having a perfectly good chat? Why shouldn’t we finish up, and over my protestations, you help me clear the table? Why then, should we not gaze into the nothingness of the hills that lay outside the house, although the darkness, that wicked ally of all sinners past and present, had long since settled in, knowing what would yet come, having seen tableaux such as ours time and again?

I confess, I did not think, did not hope that we’d go any further. I did not know what miracle had caused us to have that dinner, that almost-romantic evening, but I sure wasn’t going to ruin the night by trying to get physical. Exactly why I was thinking that way, whilst even the breeze flowing by was whispering, “Kiss her, you idiot” is beyond my comprehension, but then I’ve always had trouble thinking straight around you anyway.

You turned. And looked me in the eye and said “Fuck Me”. And that was it, no preambles, no soft touches, no intertwining of hands, nothing. You deigned me worthy enough to gaze upon your naked flesh and thusly, I was blessed. Even in a dream, lady, I cannot imagine touching you without first obtaining your consent. That is the power you hold upon me, and to the day I die, you will.

You were wearing a light-brown gown, two pieces of cloth held together by flimsy threads, and my shock had not yet subsided by the time you finished getting out of those. You weren’t naked, black was always a good color on you, and the low lighting combined with that racy lace bra of yours combined to give me erection the likes of which I’ve been scarcely privileged to get. To your credit, you didn’t burst out laughing at the spontaneity of my involuntary gesture, you understood. I’m not sure how accustomed you are to random pants tightening in your presence, but years of inhabiting a body such as yours must have given you some practice, yes?

It was when you leaned in to kiss me that I finally came to my senses. This was a moment I’d waited for years, and I’d be damned if I was letting it get away from me. Of course, I wasn’t prepared for the double whammy that was the touch of your gently moist lips on my nervous ones, and your hands working on cupping my testicles. Channeling yourself some Johnny Fontane, were you? You realized my utter bewilderment, and giggled. When you rocked your head back with that darned half-smile, I knew I’d lost. Tonight would be yours. And so would any other night you’d choose. I realized you knew exactly the limitlessness of the power you had upon me, and I didn’t care.All I wanted was that precious little jewel of a body next to mine, on top of mine or below mine on a bed. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else stood a chance.

Now, before I move further ahead, you must tell me, do you wish me to continue? I insist. After all, this is but my dream. Little one, there were far more interesting things that happened that night, things that I’d only be too happy to share. But I must ask you this, do you wish to hear more from me? Or do you wish to stop our correspondence here? Tell me, what do you feel right now? Is it revulsion, interest, or dare I ask, arousal? If even the tiniest sliver of  your perfect little body wishes me to continue, pray do not silence it. Do reply and I shall continue.

Till then, with all my heart, I await your response.

Truly yours,


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