My name is Shivam. I’m 19, doing mechanical engineering at IIT Kharagpur, still a complete virgin. No girl has ever even kissed me. My nights are filled with porn and one recurring fantasy: my bua, Meera.
Bua is 39, my father’s elder sister, divorced for five years now after a bad marriage. She’s stunning—long straight hair she leaves open, wheatish complexion that glows in the sun, kohl-lined eyes that sparkle when she laughs, and a body built for sin. 38D boobs that jiggle under her sarees and kurtis, a soft curvy waist, wide hips, and an ass so thick and round it makes my throat dry every time she walks ahead. She’s always spoiled me—extra sweets at festivals, long hugs where her heavy tits press into me, sitting close during family movies with her hand on my thigh, calling me “mera raja bhatija” in that sultry voice. I’ve been hooked since I was 15—stealing her blouses when she stayed over, sniffing her jasmine-scented bras, jerking off furiously imagining her moaning under me, those juicy lips sucking my cock while she whispers dirty things.
This year, the family planned a Darjeeling trip—toy train, tea gardens, monasteries, escape the summer heat. Papa, Mummy, Bua (since she lives alone in Delhi), and me. We booked cottages at a heritage tea estate resort—old British-era bungalows, fireplaces, views of rolling green hills and Kanchenjunga. But heavy fog and tourist season caused chaos. When we arrived, the manager apologised: only two cottages free. Parents took one. Bua smiled playfully. “Arre, bhai, main aur Shivam adjust kar lenge. Bua-bhatija hain, kitne saal se saath khelte aaye hain.”
Papa nodded trustingly. Bua’s eyes met mine, dark with something I couldn’t name. My cock twitched hard.
The cottage was cozy and intimate—polished wooden floors, huge four-poster bed with heavy quilts, fireplace ready, large windows misty with fog, attached bathroom with hot water geyser. One big bed. No extra mattress.
First night, after toy train ride and tea tasting, we were tired but buzzing. Bua changed in the bathroom first. She came out in a flimsy satin nightie—short, peach-colored, spaghetti straps, deep neck showing endless cleavage, material clinging to her curves, dark nipples poking through. No bra. Her thick thighs and ass outline visible. I nearly came in my pants.
I changed fast, came out in boxers and vest, erection impossible to hide. We lay on opposite sides, fireplace crackling, quilts pulled up, fog pressing against windows.
Silence stretched. Tea estate sounds—wind in leaves, distant dogs.
“Bhatija,” she whispered softly, “so gaya kya?”
“Nahi bua… thand hai.”
She laughed low. “Aa ja paas. Bua garam kar degi apne raja ko.”
I shifted closer, heart slamming. She turned toward me, one arm draping over my waist, heavy breast pressing my arm. Her leg slid between mine, thigh rubbing my throbbing hardness.
“Bua…” I gasped.
“Arre… yeh kya hai itna sakht mera bhatija ka?” Her hand slipped under the quilt, gripping my bulge firmly. “Kitna bada ho gaya hai tu… bua ko kabse pata tha tu mujhe gandi nazron se dekhta hai.”
I groaned, hips bucking. “Bua please… yeh galat hai…”
“Galat kya, beta? Pahadon mein hai hum, koi nahi dekh raha.” She stroked through fabric. “Sach bata… kitni baar bua ke boobs dekh ke muth maara hai? Meri saree mein gaand hilte dekh ke lund hilata tha na hostel mein? Bua ki bra churata tha na ghar pe?”
Shame burned, but lust won. “Haan bua… roz… aapki photos dekh ke… aapke naam se… sorry…”
She grinned dirty. “Sorry kyun? Aaj bua tujhe asli chut degi. Apne bhatije ka virgin lund apni geeli chut mein legi.”
She pushed me back, straddled my waist. Nightie rode up—no panties, bare pussy rubbing my stomach, wet already. She yanked my boxers down. My cock—8.5 inches, thick, veiny—sprang out leaking.
“Waah mera raja… itna mota aur lamba lund? Divorce ke baad bua ne aisa nahi dekha. Yeh toh meri chut phaad dega.”
She stroked slow, twisting hand. “Kitna ras nikal raha hai… bua taste kare apne bhatije ka lund?”
She slid down, took me deep—hot wet mouth, expert suction, throat relaxing to take half. Bobbing sloppy, saliva dripping, tongue swirling head.
“Mmm… bhatije ka lund… kitna tasty aur garam… pura muh bhar diya… bua ki throat chod raha hai tu!”
I lasted seconds. “Bua… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, hand pumping base. “Mere muh mein daal de… bua pi legi tera sara thick maal… haan aa ja beta!”
I exploded—thick ropes shooting down her throat. She swallowed every drop, moaning, then licked clean, sucking till I begged.
“Kitna powerful hai mera bhatija… abhi se itna ras.”
She pulled nightie off—naked glory, massive tits with dark nipples, soft belly, shaved pussy glistening. “Ab choos bua ke bade bade boobs… zor zor se kaat… bua ke nipples noch le.”
I lunged—sucking one hard, biting gently, hands full of soft heavy flesh. She arched, moaning loud.
“Ahh… haan Shivam… zor se choos… bua ke boobs daba dal… kitne din se taras rahi thi aise choosne ko!”
I kissed down, face between her thighs. Musky-sweet scent. I licked long—tasting juices, sucking fat lips, flicking clit.
“Haan beta… chat bua ki geeli chut… zor zor se… clit choos le… jeebh andar daal ke chod!”
I fingered her—two, then three, pumping as I sucked. She gripped hair, grinding.
“Ahh mera raja… kitna master hai… bana de bua ko apni randi… haan… aa gaya… pi le bua ka ras!”
She squirted a little—flooding my mouth, body convulsing.
Then straddled my cock. “Ab asli mazaa… bua tere lund ko apni chut mein legi.”
Sank slow—tight scorching heat, walls gripping. “Oh fuck… kitna mota… bua ki chut bhar di… ahh bhatija… ab pel apni bua ko!”
I grabbed her ass, thrust up hard. She rode wild—slamming down, circling, tits bouncing in my face. I sucked them greedily.
“Haan… zor se… thok bua ko… bana de apni kutiya… bata kitne din se bua ki chut marne ka sapna dekhta tha?”
“Roz bua… aapki gaand dekhte hi khada ho jata tha… ab sach mein chod raha hun!”
“Chod… zor zor se… meri bachchedani tak pahuncha… haan aise!”
Doggy—she on knees, ass high, me pounding, slapping cheeks red. “Bua ki moti gaand… kitni juicy… thok raha hun aapki gaand se!”
“Haan beta… thappad maar zor se… gaand laal kar… deep pel… phad de bua ki chut!”
“Andar daalun bua?”
“Haan… creampie de apni bua ko… bhar de meri chut apne garam maal se… andar tak!”
I filled her—pulse after pulse. She came screaming, milking me.
All week endless.
Round two: Fireplace rug, oiled bodies slippery. Titfuck first—“Bua ke boobs mein chod apna lund… kitna garam… ab muh mein le!” Then anal—slow entry, her begging. “Phad di tune bua ki gaand… ab roz maar… andar daal gaand mein!”
Mornings: Wake-up blowjobs—“Subah subah bua ka muh bhar de ras se!”
Afternoons: Family tea plucking, we sneaked to estate sheds. Quick standing fuck, her saree hiked. “Jaldi pel beta… log aa jayenge… andar daal!”
Nights: Marathon—69, role-play strict bua punishing naughty bhatija with edging then riding.
Between: She confessed loneliness post-divorce, no good sex in years. “Tu mujhe zinda kar raha hai… tera lund meri chut ka nasha.”
Bua is 39, my father’s elder sister, divorced for five years now after a bad marriage. She’s stunning—long straight hair she leaves open, wheatish complexion that glows in the sun, kohl-lined eyes that sparkle when she laughs, and a body built for sin. 38D boobs that jiggle under her sarees and kurtis, a soft curvy waist, wide hips, and an ass so thick and round it makes my throat dry every time she walks ahead. She’s always spoiled me—extra sweets at festivals, long hugs where her heavy tits press into me, sitting close during family movies with her hand on my thigh, calling me “mera raja bhatija” in that sultry voice. I’ve been hooked since I was 15—stealing her blouses when she stayed over, sniffing her jasmine-scented bras, jerking off furiously imagining her moaning under me, those juicy lips sucking my cock while she whispers dirty things.
This year, the family planned a Darjeeling trip—toy train, tea gardens, monasteries, escape the summer heat. Papa, Mummy, Bua (since she lives alone in Delhi), and me. We booked cottages at a heritage tea estate resort—old British-era bungalows, fireplaces, views of rolling green hills and Kanchenjunga. But heavy fog and tourist season caused chaos. When we arrived, the manager apologised: only two cottages free. Parents took one. Bua smiled playfully. “Arre, bhai, main aur Shivam adjust kar lenge. Bua-bhatija hain, kitne saal se saath khelte aaye hain.”
Papa nodded trustingly. Bua’s eyes met mine, dark with something I couldn’t name. My cock twitched hard.
The cottage was cozy and intimate—polished wooden floors, huge four-poster bed with heavy quilts, fireplace ready, large windows misty with fog, attached bathroom with hot water geyser. One big bed. No extra mattress.
First night, after toy train ride and tea tasting, we were tired but buzzing. Bua changed in the bathroom first. She came out in a flimsy satin nightie—short, peach-colored, spaghetti straps, deep neck showing endless cleavage, material clinging to her curves, dark nipples poking through. No bra. Her thick thighs and ass outline visible. I nearly came in my pants.
I changed fast, came out in boxers and vest, erection impossible to hide. We lay on opposite sides, fireplace crackling, quilts pulled up, fog pressing against windows.
Silence stretched. Tea estate sounds—wind in leaves, distant dogs.
“Bhatija,” she whispered softly, “so gaya kya?”
“Nahi bua… thand hai.”
She laughed low. “Aa ja paas. Bua garam kar degi apne raja ko.”
I shifted closer, heart slamming. She turned toward me, one arm draping over my waist, heavy breast pressing my arm. Her leg slid between mine, thigh rubbing my throbbing hardness.
“Bua…” I gasped.
“Arre… yeh kya hai itna sakht mera bhatija ka?” Her hand slipped under the quilt, gripping my bulge firmly. “Kitna bada ho gaya hai tu… bua ko kabse pata tha tu mujhe gandi nazron se dekhta hai.”
I groaned, hips bucking. “Bua please… yeh galat hai…”
“Galat kya, beta? Pahadon mein hai hum, koi nahi dekh raha.” She stroked through fabric. “Sach bata… kitni baar bua ke boobs dekh ke muth maara hai? Meri saree mein gaand hilte dekh ke lund hilata tha na hostel mein? Bua ki bra churata tha na ghar pe?”
Shame burned, but lust won. “Haan bua… roz… aapki photos dekh ke… aapke naam se… sorry…”
She grinned dirty. “Sorry kyun? Aaj bua tujhe asli chut degi. Apne bhatije ka virgin lund apni geeli chut mein legi.”
She pushed me back, straddled my waist. Nightie rode up—no panties, bare pussy rubbing my stomach, wet already. She yanked my boxers down. My cock—8.5 inches, thick, veiny—sprang out leaking.
“Waah mera raja… itna mota aur lamba lund? Divorce ke baad bua ne aisa nahi dekha. Yeh toh meri chut phaad dega.”
She stroked slow, twisting hand. “Kitna ras nikal raha hai… bua taste kare apne bhatije ka lund?”
She slid down, took me deep—hot wet mouth, expert suction, throat relaxing to take half. Bobbing sloppy, saliva dripping, tongue swirling head.
“Mmm… bhatije ka lund… kitna tasty aur garam… pura muh bhar diya… bua ki throat chod raha hai tu!”
I lasted seconds. “Bua… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, hand pumping base. “Mere muh mein daal de… bua pi legi tera sara thick maal… haan aa ja beta!”
I exploded—thick ropes shooting down her throat. She swallowed every drop, moaning, then licked clean, sucking till I begged.
“Kitna powerful hai mera bhatija… abhi se itna ras.”
She pulled nightie off—naked glory, massive tits with dark nipples, soft belly, shaved pussy glistening. “Ab choos bua ke bade bade boobs… zor zor se kaat… bua ke nipples noch le.”
I lunged—sucking one hard, biting gently, hands full of soft heavy flesh. She arched, moaning loud.
“Ahh… haan Shivam… zor se choos… bua ke boobs daba dal… kitne din se taras rahi thi aise choosne ko!”
I kissed down, face between her thighs. Musky-sweet scent. I licked long—tasting juices, sucking fat lips, flicking clit.
“Haan beta… chat bua ki geeli chut… zor zor se… clit choos le… jeebh andar daal ke chod!”
I fingered her—two, then three, pumping as I sucked. She gripped hair, grinding.
“Ahh mera raja… kitna master hai… bana de bua ko apni randi… haan… aa gaya… pi le bua ka ras!”
She squirted a little—flooding my mouth, body convulsing.
Then straddled my cock. “Ab asli mazaa… bua tere lund ko apni chut mein legi.”
Sank slow—tight scorching heat, walls gripping. “Oh fuck… kitna mota… bua ki chut bhar di… ahh bhatija… ab pel apni bua ko!”
I grabbed her ass, thrust up hard. She rode wild—slamming down, circling, tits bouncing in my face. I sucked them greedily.
“Haan… zor se… thok bua ko… bana de apni kutiya… bata kitne din se bua ki chut marne ka sapna dekhta tha?”
“Roz bua… aapki gaand dekhte hi khada ho jata tha… ab sach mein chod raha hun!”
“Chod… zor zor se… meri bachchedani tak pahuncha… haan aise!”
Doggy—she on knees, ass high, me pounding, slapping cheeks red. “Bua ki moti gaand… kitni juicy… thok raha hun aapki gaand se!”
“Haan beta… thappad maar zor se… gaand laal kar… deep pel… phad de bua ki chut!”
“Andar daalun bua?”
“Haan… creampie de apni bua ko… bhar de meri chut apne garam maal se… andar tak!”
I filled her—pulse after pulse. She came screaming, milking me.
All week endless.
Round two: Fireplace rug, oiled bodies slippery. Titfuck first—“Bua ke boobs mein chod apna lund… kitna garam… ab muh mein le!” Then anal—slow entry, her begging. “Phad di tune bua ki gaand… ab roz maar… andar daal gaand mein!”
Mornings: Wake-up blowjobs—“Subah subah bua ka muh bhar de ras se!”
Afternoons: Family tea plucking, we sneaked to estate sheds. Quick standing fuck, her saree hiked. “Jaldi pel beta… log aa jayenge… andar daal!”
Nights: Marathon—69, role-play strict bua punishing naughty bhatija with edging then riding.
Between: She confessed loneliness post-divorce, no good sex in years. “Tu mujhe zinda kar raha hai… tera lund meri chut ka nasha.”