Writer name: Meena Reddy
My name is Priya. I’m 28 years old, married for five years now, living in a quiet middle-class home in Hyderabad. From the outside, everything looks perfect—respectable family, good husband, comfortable life. But inside these walls, especially during these long, humid summer months, everything feels… heavy. Stagnant. My husband, Vikram, is a sales manager who travels constantly. Weeks turn into months sometimes. He calls, he sends money, he says he loves me, but when he’s home, it’s rushed—dinner, quick sex that lasts barely five minutes, then sleep. He finishes, rolls over, and I lie there staring at the ceiling fan, feeling empty, untouched in places deeper than skin.
This summer has been the worst. The heat is unbearable, the kind that makes your skin sticky even after three baths a day. And then there’s Rohan—my devar, Vikram’s younger brother. He’s 22, just finished college, staying with us while he looks for a job. He’s always been around, but I never really noticed him before. Not like this.
It started innocently enough. One morning, I was in the kitchen making chai. I was wearing a simple cotton saree, the kind that clings when you sweat. Rohan walked in, shirtless, fresh from his workout in the tiny balcony gym Vikram set up. His skin glistened, chest broad, muscles defined from all those push-ups and weights. A thin line of sweat ran down his abs. He smiled at me—God, that smile—and said, “Bhabhi, chai ready hai?” I nodded, but my eyes betrayed me. They lingered on the way his shorts hung low on his hips, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband. I felt a jolt, sharp and shameful, right between my thighs. I turned away quickly, pretending to stir the pot, but my heart was racing. What was wrong with me? He’s my devar. Family. Taboo.
Days passed like that. Little moments that piled up like bricks on my chest. I’d be folding laundry and catch him watching me from the doorway, his gaze soft but intense. When I bent to pick up clothes, my pallu would slip just a little, revealing the curve of my blouse, the swell of my breasts. I’d adjust it quickly, but not before noticing how his eyes darkened. I started wearing lighter sarees, thinner blouses, telling myself it was just the heat. But deep down, I knew. I wanted him to look.
One afternoon, the power went out—typical Hyderabad summer load-shedding. The fan stopped, and the room became a furnace. I was in the living room, trying to read, but sweat trickled down my neck, soaking into my blouse. The fabric stuck to my skin, outlining my bra, my nipples hardening against the dampness. Rohan came in with a handheld fan, sat beside me on the sofa—closer than necessary. “Bhabhi, yeh lo,” he said, offering it. Our fingers brushed. Electricity shot through me, hotter than any current. I murmured thanks, but didn’t move away. His thigh pressed lightly against mine. I could smell him—clean sweat, masculine, mixed with his deodorant. My chut ached suddenly, a slow throb I hadn’t felt in years.
That night, I lay in bed alone—Vikram was in Bangalore for another week. I touched myself for the first time in months, imagining Rohan’s hands instead of mine. Guilt flooded me immediately. Yeh galat hai, Priya. He’s your devar. If anyone found out… But the fantasy wouldn’t stop. His strong arms pinning me, his mouth on my neck. I came hard, biting my pillow to stifle the moan, tears in my eyes from shame and relief.
The tension built over the next week. Late nights became our unspoken ritual. Vikram would call around 10, talk briefly, then Rohan and I would sit in the living room watching TV, lights dim. One evening, I was in the kitchen washing dishes. He came to “help,” standing behind me at the sink. His chest brushed my back as he reached for a plate. I froze. His breath was warm on my neck. “Bhabhi, aap thak gayi hongi,” he whispered. I shook my head, but my voice came out shaky. “Nahi… it’s fine.” His hand grazed my waist, lingering. I didn’t pull away. My nipples tightened instantly, poking through my blouse. I felt wetness between my legs, soaking my panties. Oh God, what was happening to me?
Another time, I was bathing—door locked, of course—but the latch was old. I heard it click open accidentally as Rohan passed by. He gasped, “Sorry bhabhi!” and shut it fast, but not before seeing me naked from behind, water cascading over my curves, my gaand round and soapy. I should have been mortified. Instead, I stood there longer than necessary, letting the water run, imagining his eyes on me. That night, during dinner, our feet touched under the table. Neither of us moved them. His toes traced my ankle slowly. I bit my lip, heat pooling in my core.
The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday night. Thunder roared, power cut again. The house plunged into darkness, rain lashing the windows. I lit candles in the living room, wearing a light pink saree that turned translucent in the humidity. Rohan joined me, sitting close on the sofa. We talked—about his job hunt, my loneliness, Vikram’s absences. His voice was low, comforting. Then lightning flashed, illuminating his face—those eyes, hungry now, not hiding it.
“Bhabhi,” he said softly, “aap bahut sundar ho.” My breath caught. I should have scolded him, sent him to his room. Instead, I whispered, “Rohan… yeh theek nahi hai.” But my hand trembled on my lap. He took it gently, his thumb stroking my palm. Sparks. His other hand reached up, tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear. I shivered.
The next moments blurred. He leaned in, and I didn’t stop him. Our lips met—soft at first, tentative. Then deeper. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of the chai we’d shared. I moaned into the kiss, shame burning my cheeks even as desire flooded me. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer. My pallu slipped, falling away completely. He broke the kiss, eyes wide at my blouse—sweat-soaked, nipples visible, hard and aching.
“Bhabhi… I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed. Guilt stabbed me—Vikram’s face flashed in my mind—but the hunger won. I cupped his face, kissed him harder. His hands moved up, cupping my chuchi over the blouse. I gasped as he squeezed gently, thumbs circling my nipples. “Rohan… slowly,” I whispered, voice husky.
He obeyed, but with growing boldness. One by one, he unhooked my blouse—there were six hooks, and he took his time with each, kissing the exposed skin. My bra was simple cotton, but soaked, clinging. He peeled it up, freeing my breasts—34C, full and heavy, dark nipples erect. He stared in awe, then lowered his mouth. The first suck—oh God—sent lightning through me. His tongue swirled, teeth grazing lightly. I arched, fingers tangling in his hair. “Haan… aise hi,” I moaned, shame forgotten in the pleasure.
His hands worked lower, tugging my petticoat string. It loosened, saree pooling at my feet. I stood in just my panties—plain white, now drenched. He knelt, kissing my stomach, navel, down to the waistband. I trembled, thighs quivering. “Rohan… dar lag raha hai,” I admitted, but pulled him closer. He hooked his fingers in, slid them down slowly. My chut was exposed—trimmed hair, lips swollen, glistening. He inhaled deeply. “Bhabhi, aapki khushboo… maddening hai.”
His fingers parted me gently. I was so wet, they slid easily. One finger, then two, curling inside. I gripped his shoulders, legs shaking. “Ahh… Rohan!” My first orgasm hit suddenly—waves crashing, chut clenching around his fingers, juices dripping down my thighs. I cried out, collapsing against him.
He stood, stripping quickly. His lund sprang free—thick, veiny, at least 7 inches, head glistening with precum. I stared, mouth watering despite my shyness. “Itna bada…” I whispered. He smiled, guided my hand to it. Hot, hard, throbbing. I stroked instinctively, feeling it twitch.
I sank to my knees—something I’d never done for Vikram. The carpet was soft under me. I kissed the tip, tasting salt. Then took him in—slowly, inch by inch. He groaned, hand in my hair. “Bhabhi… your mouth feels like heaven.” I sucked deeper, tongue swirling, bobbing. His hips bucked gently. I gagged a little but kept going, driven by his moans.
He pulled me up before he came. “I want to be inside you.” We moved to the sofa. He laid me down, missionary first. His body covered mine—sweat mixing, skin sliding. He positioned his lund at my entrance, rubbing the head against my clit. I whimpered. “Daal do… please.”
He pushed in slowly. Ohhh…the stretch. Fullness I’d never known. “Rohan… poora andar,” I begged. He thrust deeper, bottoming out. We both groaned. He started moving—slow, deep strokes. Wet sounds filled the room—plop plop plop—as his lund pistoned my chut. My chuchi jiggled with each thrust, his mouth alternating between them, sucking hard.
“Faster… zor se,” I heard myself say. Shame flickered, but pleasure drowned it. He obliged, pounding now. My nails dug into his back. Second orgasm built fast—tighter, deeper. “I’m coming… haan!” I clenched around him, squirting a little, soaking us both.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up—doggy. My gaand in the air, he slapped it lightly. “Bhabhi ki gaand… perfect.” He entered again from behind. Deeper angle—hitting spots that made me see stars. His balls slapped my clit. I pushed back, meeting his thrusts. “Chod mujhe… devarji… apni bhabhi ko chod daalo!”
We switched again—I on top, cowgirl. I rode him slowly at first, grinding, feeling him throb inside. My breasts bounced in his face; he caught them, sucking. I sped up, hips circling. Sweat dripped from me onto him. “Your lund… so deep… filling me completely.”
He gripped my gaand, thrusting up. Third orgasm crashed over me—screaming his name. He followed soon after. “Bhabhi… andar aa raha hoon!” Hot spurts filled me—creampie, thick and warm, leaking out as he kept thrusting through his climax.
We collapsed, panting. But we weren’t done. After catching breath, round two—he carried me to my bed (Vikram’s bed—more guilt). This time slower, more intimate. Missionary again, eye contact. Kissing deeply as he moved inside me. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling deeper. “I love how you feel… don’t stop.” Another creampie.
Round three—against the wall, standing. My saree bunched around my waist, one leg hooked over his hip. Urgent, desperate. He pinched my nipples, bit my neck. I came twice more, weak-kneed.
Finally, exhausted, we lay tangled. His cum leaked from my chut onto the sheets. I traced his chest, tears coming now. “Rohan… yeh galat tha. Vikram bhaiya…” He kissed my forehead. “Bhabhi, I love you. This feels right.” Mixed emotions swirled—guilt heavy, but satisfaction deeper. Pleasure I’d never known. And a secret hunger for more.
The rain stopped eventually. Power returned. We cleaned up quietly, but his touch lingered. As I drifted to sleep alone, I knew this wasn’t the end. Tomorrow… maybe again. The taboo had awakened something in me I couldn’t put back to sleep.
My name is Priya. I’m 28 years old, married for five years now, living in a quiet middle-class home in Hyderabad. From the outside, everything looks perfect—respectable family, good husband, comfortable life. But inside these walls, especially during these long, humid summer months, everything feels… heavy. Stagnant. My husband, Vikram, is a sales manager who travels constantly. Weeks turn into months sometimes. He calls, he sends money, he says he loves me, but when he’s home, it’s rushed—dinner, quick sex that lasts barely five minutes, then sleep. He finishes, rolls over, and I lie there staring at the ceiling fan, feeling empty, untouched in places deeper than skin.
This summer has been the worst. The heat is unbearable, the kind that makes your skin sticky even after three baths a day. And then there’s Rohan—my devar, Vikram’s younger brother. He’s 22, just finished college, staying with us while he looks for a job. He’s always been around, but I never really noticed him before. Not like this.
It started innocently enough. One morning, I was in the kitchen making chai. I was wearing a simple cotton saree, the kind that clings when you sweat. Rohan walked in, shirtless, fresh from his workout in the tiny balcony gym Vikram set up. His skin glistened, chest broad, muscles defined from all those push-ups and weights. A thin line of sweat ran down his abs. He smiled at me—God, that smile—and said, “Bhabhi, chai ready hai?” I nodded, but my eyes betrayed me. They lingered on the way his shorts hung low on his hips, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband. I felt a jolt, sharp and shameful, right between my thighs. I turned away quickly, pretending to stir the pot, but my heart was racing. What was wrong with me? He’s my devar. Family. Taboo.
Days passed like that. Little moments that piled up like bricks on my chest. I’d be folding laundry and catch him watching me from the doorway, his gaze soft but intense. When I bent to pick up clothes, my pallu would slip just a little, revealing the curve of my blouse, the swell of my breasts. I’d adjust it quickly, but not before noticing how his eyes darkened. I started wearing lighter sarees, thinner blouses, telling myself it was just the heat. But deep down, I knew. I wanted him to look.
One afternoon, the power went out—typical Hyderabad summer load-shedding. The fan stopped, and the room became a furnace. I was in the living room, trying to read, but sweat trickled down my neck, soaking into my blouse. The fabric stuck to my skin, outlining my bra, my nipples hardening against the dampness. Rohan came in with a handheld fan, sat beside me on the sofa—closer than necessary. “Bhabhi, yeh lo,” he said, offering it. Our fingers brushed. Electricity shot through me, hotter than any current. I murmured thanks, but didn’t move away. His thigh pressed lightly against mine. I could smell him—clean sweat, masculine, mixed with his deodorant. My chut ached suddenly, a slow throb I hadn’t felt in years.
That night, I lay in bed alone—Vikram was in Bangalore for another week. I touched myself for the first time in months, imagining Rohan’s hands instead of mine. Guilt flooded me immediately. Yeh galat hai, Priya. He’s your devar. If anyone found out… But the fantasy wouldn’t stop. His strong arms pinning me, his mouth on my neck. I came hard, biting my pillow to stifle the moan, tears in my eyes from shame and relief.
The tension built over the next week. Late nights became our unspoken ritual. Vikram would call around 10, talk briefly, then Rohan and I would sit in the living room watching TV, lights dim. One evening, I was in the kitchen washing dishes. He came to “help,” standing behind me at the sink. His chest brushed my back as he reached for a plate. I froze. His breath was warm on my neck. “Bhabhi, aap thak gayi hongi,” he whispered. I shook my head, but my voice came out shaky. “Nahi… it’s fine.” His hand grazed my waist, lingering. I didn’t pull away. My nipples tightened instantly, poking through my blouse. I felt wetness between my legs, soaking my panties. Oh God, what was happening to me?
Another time, I was bathing—door locked, of course—but the latch was old. I heard it click open accidentally as Rohan passed by. He gasped, “Sorry bhabhi!” and shut it fast, but not before seeing me naked from behind, water cascading over my curves, my gaand round and soapy. I should have been mortified. Instead, I stood there longer than necessary, letting the water run, imagining his eyes on me. That night, during dinner, our feet touched under the table. Neither of us moved them. His toes traced my ankle slowly. I bit my lip, heat pooling in my core.
The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday night. Thunder roared, power cut again. The house plunged into darkness, rain lashing the windows. I lit candles in the living room, wearing a light pink saree that turned translucent in the humidity. Rohan joined me, sitting close on the sofa. We talked—about his job hunt, my loneliness, Vikram’s absences. His voice was low, comforting. Then lightning flashed, illuminating his face—those eyes, hungry now, not hiding it.
“Bhabhi,” he said softly, “aap bahut sundar ho.” My breath caught. I should have scolded him, sent him to his room. Instead, I whispered, “Rohan… yeh theek nahi hai.” But my hand trembled on my lap. He took it gently, his thumb stroking my palm. Sparks. His other hand reached up, tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear. I shivered.
The next moments blurred. He leaned in, and I didn’t stop him. Our lips met—soft at first, tentative. Then deeper. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of the chai we’d shared. I moaned into the kiss, shame burning my cheeks even as desire flooded me. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer. My pallu slipped, falling away completely. He broke the kiss, eyes wide at my blouse—sweat-soaked, nipples visible, hard and aching.
“Bhabhi… I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed. Guilt stabbed me—Vikram’s face flashed in my mind—but the hunger won. I cupped his face, kissed him harder. His hands moved up, cupping my chuchi over the blouse. I gasped as he squeezed gently, thumbs circling my nipples. “Rohan… slowly,” I whispered, voice husky.
He obeyed, but with growing boldness. One by one, he unhooked my blouse—there were six hooks, and he took his time with each, kissing the exposed skin. My bra was simple cotton, but soaked, clinging. He peeled it up, freeing my breasts—34C, full and heavy, dark nipples erect. He stared in awe, then lowered his mouth. The first suck—oh God—sent lightning through me. His tongue swirled, teeth grazing lightly. I arched, fingers tangling in his hair. “Haan… aise hi,” I moaned, shame forgotten in the pleasure.
His hands worked lower, tugging my petticoat string. It loosened, saree pooling at my feet. I stood in just my panties—plain white, now drenched. He knelt, kissing my stomach, navel, down to the waistband. I trembled, thighs quivering. “Rohan… dar lag raha hai,” I admitted, but pulled him closer. He hooked his fingers in, slid them down slowly. My chut was exposed—trimmed hair, lips swollen, glistening. He inhaled deeply. “Bhabhi, aapki khushboo… maddening hai.”
His fingers parted me gently. I was so wet, they slid easily. One finger, then two, curling inside. I gripped his shoulders, legs shaking. “Ahh… Rohan!” My first orgasm hit suddenly—waves crashing, chut clenching around his fingers, juices dripping down my thighs. I cried out, collapsing against him.
He stood, stripping quickly. His lund sprang free—thick, veiny, at least 7 inches, head glistening with precum. I stared, mouth watering despite my shyness. “Itna bada…” I whispered. He smiled, guided my hand to it. Hot, hard, throbbing. I stroked instinctively, feeling it twitch.
I sank to my knees—something I’d never done for Vikram. The carpet was soft under me. I kissed the tip, tasting salt. Then took him in—slowly, inch by inch. He groaned, hand in my hair. “Bhabhi… your mouth feels like heaven.” I sucked deeper, tongue swirling, bobbing. His hips bucked gently. I gagged a little but kept going, driven by his moans.
He pulled me up before he came. “I want to be inside you.” We moved to the sofa. He laid me down, missionary first. His body covered mine—sweat mixing, skin sliding. He positioned his lund at my entrance, rubbing the head against my clit. I whimpered. “Daal do… please.”
He pushed in slowly. Ohhh…the stretch. Fullness I’d never known. “Rohan… poora andar,” I begged. He thrust deeper, bottoming out. We both groaned. He started moving—slow, deep strokes. Wet sounds filled the room—plop plop plop—as his lund pistoned my chut. My chuchi jiggled with each thrust, his mouth alternating between them, sucking hard.
“Faster… zor se,” I heard myself say. Shame flickered, but pleasure drowned it. He obliged, pounding now. My nails dug into his back. Second orgasm built fast—tighter, deeper. “I’m coming… haan!” I clenched around him, squirting a little, soaking us both.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up—doggy. My gaand in the air, he slapped it lightly. “Bhabhi ki gaand… perfect.” He entered again from behind. Deeper angle—hitting spots that made me see stars. His balls slapped my clit. I pushed back, meeting his thrusts. “Chod mujhe… devarji… apni bhabhi ko chod daalo!”
We switched again—I on top, cowgirl. I rode him slowly at first, grinding, feeling him throb inside. My breasts bounced in his face; he caught them, sucking. I sped up, hips circling. Sweat dripped from me onto him. “Your lund… so deep… filling me completely.”
He gripped my gaand, thrusting up. Third orgasm crashed over me—screaming his name. He followed soon after. “Bhabhi… andar aa raha hoon!” Hot spurts filled me—creampie, thick and warm, leaking out as he kept thrusting through his climax.
We collapsed, panting. But we weren’t done. After catching breath, round two—he carried me to my bed (Vikram’s bed—more guilt). This time slower, more intimate. Missionary again, eye contact. Kissing deeply as he moved inside me. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling deeper. “I love how you feel… don’t stop.” Another creampie.
Round three—against the wall, standing. My saree bunched around my waist, one leg hooked over his hip. Urgent, desperate. He pinched my nipples, bit my neck. I came twice more, weak-kneed.
Finally, exhausted, we lay tangled. His cum leaked from my chut onto the sheets. I traced his chest, tears coming now. “Rohan… yeh galat tha. Vikram bhaiya…” He kissed my forehead. “Bhabhi, I love you. This feels right.” Mixed emotions swirled—guilt heavy, but satisfaction deeper. Pleasure I’d never known. And a secret hunger for more.
The rain stopped eventually. Power returned. We cleaned up quietly, but his touch lingered. As I drifted to sleep alone, I knew this wasn’t the end. Tomorrow… maybe again. The taboo had awakened something in me I couldn’t put back to sleep.