Kalua’s Plan to Hunt My Aunt

The Bhopal summer afternoon was merciless that day, a heavy, suffocating heat that made sweat pool in every crease of the body. I was sixteen, lounging in Aunty Rashmi’s living room with my new friend Kalua, idly playing cards on the cool floor. We had been killing time for hours, but when the front door creaked open around 2 PM, the entire atmosphere shifted.

Aunty Rashmi stepped inside, and she looked like a vision born of heat and exhaustion. She was thirty-two and unmarried, with a curvaceous body that the humidity was worshipping today. Her cotton saree was soaked, clinging to her heavy curves like a second skin, turning translucent in patches against her milk-white flesh. Her bank job ran her ragged, and the walk home in this scorching sun had defeated her.

Her saree pallu had slipped carelessly from her shoulder, dangling loose. My eyes instantly locked onto her exposed waist, where the wet fabric had ridden up high. There it was—her navel. It stared back at me, a deep, long oval carved beautifully into her soft, heaving belly. It was glistening with fresh sweat, a tiny, crystal bead rolling down her midriff to vanish inside that deep pit like a secret invitation. A jolt of electricity hit my groin, my cock twitching hard and insistent inside my shorts. I had seen flashes of her waist before when she adjusted her clothes, but never like this—so raw, so wet, and so open.

Beside me, Kalua froze mid-deal. His dark eyes were bulging, glued to her navel as if it were the center of the universe. He was a colony boy, street-tough and bold, but right now, he looked thunderstruck. His mouth hung slightly open, a hungry, slack-jawed expression taking over his face as he drank her in. His gaze devoured the sight of her wet blouse hugging her full breasts, the dark impress of her nipples poking against the thin, damp cotton, and that deep belly button that seemed to be begging for a touch.

“Heyy,” Rashmi Aunty breathed out, her voice heavy with fatigue but still holding that natural warmth. She didn’t notice our hunger; she just offered a tired, confused smile at seeing Kalua. She lifted a hand to fan her flushed face, and the motion made her saree shift further, her deep navel stretching and dipping into the shadow of her soft stomach folds.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. “This is my friend Kalua, Aunty. From the colony nearby,” I managed to say.

She nodded, stepping closer, her bare feet making soft padding sounds on the tiles. When she extended her hand to greet him, her palm was soft and damp against his rough, street-hardened grip. Kalua looked like he had touched a live wire. He held on too long, his eyes darting frantically from her face down to her exposed, wet waist, and back up again. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed thick saliva, and between his legs, his shorts were tenting up aggressively, a hard bulge mirroring my own aching need.

“What is your name again? Which class? Where do you live?” she asked gently, her sensitive, caring nature shining through the sweat and exhaustion, completely unaware of the chaos her body was causing us.

Kalua stammered out his answers—his address in the slum, mumbling that there was no school for him right now. His voice was thick, heavy with distraction, his gaze dropping helplessly back to her midriff. The sweat there caught the afternoon light, a salty, glistening sheen that I could almost taste from across the room.

She smiled, oblivious to the hunger in the room—or maybe just used to men staring. “Okay, kids, play nicely. I am dead tired. I’ll rest in my room.” She glanced at the couch, her usual spot, but with a stranger present, she chose privacy. As she turned, her hips swayed lazily under the damp cotton. Before disappearing, she looked back. “Want something to eat?”

We shook our heads, mute. She vanished behind her bedroom door, leaving the living room air charged with the scent of her sweat and our sudden, spikey lust.

As soon as the latch clicked, Kalua turned to me, his eyes wild and wide. “Fuck, bhai… your aunty is hot as hell. Did you see that? That navel… it’s deep enough to stick my tongue in and lick her clean from the inside.” He was breathing hard. “You live here alone with her? Where does she sleep? On the couch? In that room?”

The questions tumbled out, urgent and low. His hand was already moving, adjusting his hard cock through the rough fabric of his shorts. I shifted uncomfortably, my own dick throbbing at the fresh memory of that exposed, wet skin. “Yeah, just us. She sleeps on the couch usually, underneath the fan, but sometimes in her room. Why?”

He grinned slyly, leaning in close, smelling of dust and excitement. “You ever touch her? Feel that soft belly? I bet her pussy is just as tight and wet as that deep pit on her stomach.”

I flushed hot, admitting I’d stared at her navel plenty, how those rare glimpses drove me crazy, but I’d never dared to get close. He pressed for more details—her routine, when she showered, when she changed. His obsession was clear; he described wanting to bury his face in her midriff, to lap at the sweat pooling in her navel like a dog drinking water.

From that day on, Kalua became a fixture. He showed up daily, timing his visits around her afternoon naps. He tracked her habits like a hunter: watching how she kicked off her sandals by the door, noting the way her saree loosened when she dozed off. We pretended to play cards, but his real game was the “tours.” He’d drag me into the kitchen, the bathroom, and to her bedroom door, cracking it just enough for a peek at her resting form—hoping her saree had hiked up to leave that glorious, round navel on display.

One game became his absolute favorite. We would sneak to her wardrobe. He would call out colors—”Pink! Wine red! Purple! Skin tone!”—and I would rummage through her shelves to find matches. Her clothes were soft and worn: lacy bras in blush pink that cupped her heavy breasts, panties in deep red that hugged her wide hips, a sheer nightie in skin tone that made my mouth go dry just imagining it sliding down her body.

Kalua would snatch them from me, rubbing the fabric against his rough cheek, inhaling deeply. “Ahh…” he would groan, smelling her faint scent—musky sweat mixed with Sandalwood soap and talcum powder. His free hand would stroke his bulge furiously. “This one… this one is for her navel,” he’d mutter, pressing a purple blouse right against his nose and mouth. I stood there watching, my own cock straining against my zipper, voyeuring his pervy ritual. The age gap between us unwashed kids and her mature, fleshy body only fueled the heat.

A few days later, Kalua arrived early, at 11 AM, clutching a packet of prasad from some “holy temple.”

“Give it to her,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a secret plan. “Say it is from you. Don’t tell where it came from, or the blessing breaks.”

I buzzed with nervous excitement. Aunty always doted on me. When she finally dragged herself home at 2 PM, tired and glowing with that familiar sheen of perspiration, I handed it over. “From the temple nearby, Aunty. I prayed for you.”

Her tired face lit up. Those full lips curved into a sweet smile as she leaned in and kissed my forehead, her breath warm and milky on my skin. “So sweet,” she murmured. She popped the sweet into her mouth, her lips smacking softly as she chewed, licking the sticky sugar from her fingertips.

Then, she retreated to her room to rest, leaving the door slightly ajar to let the air circulate. I flipped on the TV, but my mind was racing—visualizing her tongue on those sugary fingers, thinking of that deep navel hidden away in the dark bedroom.

At 2:30, a sharp knock came. I opened the door to Kalua. His grin was feral, his eyes darting past me immediately toward her room.

“She eat it?” he asked, stepping inside uninvited. He lifted his chin, sniffing the air as if he could smell her sleeping body from the doorway. My pulse quickened, a heavy coil of tension tightening in my gut as he started walking straight for the hallway.