I never thought my summer vacation in Lucknow would turn into something so sinful, so intoxicating that it would consume my every waking thought. My name is Rohan, I'm 22, just finished my engineering degree in Delhi, and I came back to my ancestral home for my cousin's wedding. The house was a massive old haveli in the heart of Chowk, with creaky wooden doors, marble floors that echoed with footsteps, and rooms filled with the aroma of attar and fresh mogra flowers. It was a joint family setup – uncles, aunts, cousins all under one roof, buzzing with preparations for the shaadi. Mehendi artists coming in, tailors stitching lehengas, and the kitchen always alive with the sizzle of puris and the sweet smell of jalebis being fried.
But amidst all this chaos, there was her – my chachi, Neha. She was my chacha's wife, married into the family about 15 years ago. Chacha was always busy with his business, traveling to Mumbai or Kolkata, leaving her to manage the household. At 35, she was a vision of desi beauty – fair skin like fresh malai, long black hair that she tied in a loose bun, letting strands fall teasingly over her shoulders. Her figure was voluptuous, the kind that made sarees look like they were painted on her body – full chuche that strained against her blouse, a slim waist that flared into wide hips, and a gaand that swayed hypnotically when she walked. She always wore traditional attire: silk sarees during the day, pallu draped modestly but slipping just enough to give a glimpse of her deep navel, and at night, thin nighties that clung to her curves in the humid Lucknow heat.
I had always admired her from afar, but this time, something was different. Maybe it was because I was older now, my hormones raging after being away in the city. Or perhaps it was the way she looked at me – those kohl-lined eyes lingering a second too long, a shy smile playing on her lips when our gazes met across the crowded living room. "Yeh galat hai, Rohan," I told myself internally, feeling a pang of guilt. She was my chachi, family, respected. But dil nahi manta tha. Every time she bent to pick up a thaali of sweets, her saree would slip, revealing the curve of her chuche, and my lund would twitch in my pants. I felt like a thief, stealing glances, but the thrill was addictive.
The trigger came during the wedding preparations. It was a hot afternoon, power cut as usual in Lucknow summers – the generator humming outside, but the heat still oppressive. Everyone was busy: maa and other aunties in the kitchen making laddoos, cousins practicing dance steps for the sangeet. Chachi was in the upstairs room, sorting through old jewelry for the bride. Chacha had left for a business trip that morning, saying he'd be back in two days. I was lounging in the veranda, scrolling my phone, when she called out, "Rohan beta, zara upar aa na. Yeh heavy box utha de."
I climbed the stairs, heart pounding for no reason. The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn to keep out the sun, fan whirring lazily. She was sitting on the bed, surrounded by velvet pouches of gold necklaces and bangles. Her red saree was damp with sweat, clinging to her body, outlining her bra straps and the swell of her chuche. The smell hit me first – her jasmine perfume mixed with the musky scent of her sweat, intoxicating. "Haan chachi, kya karna hai?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
She pointed to a wooden trunk in the corner. "Woh box neeche rakh de, beta. Bohot bhari hai." As I bent to lift it, she stood up to help, her hand brushing mine accidentally. Electric shock. Her skin was soft, warm. I looked up, our faces inches apart. Her breath was quick, lips parted slightly. "Sorry," she whispered, but didn't pull away. Internal monologue raced: "Kya kar raha hoon? Yeh chachi hai, par kitni khoobsurat hai. Uski aankhein... jaise mujhe bula rahi hain." Guilt twisted in my gut, but excitement won. I smiled, "Koi baat nahi, chachi. Aap itni mehnat kar rahi ho, main help karunga."
We moved the box together, and as we did, her pallu slipped completely, revealing her blouse – low-cut, showing deep cleavage where sweat beads glistened like pearls. My eyes darted there involuntarily. She noticed, blushed, but instead of covering up, she adjusted it slowly, teasingly. "Garmi bohot hai na?" she said softly, fanning herself with her hand, making her chuche rise and fall. Flirtation in her voice? Or was I imagining? We sat on the bed, sorting jewelry. Dialogues flowed: "Beta, tu bada ho gaya hai. Delhi mein koi girlfriend bani?" she asked playfully.
I laughed nervously. "Nahin chachi, padhai mein busy tha. Aapki tarah khoobsurat koi mili hi nahi." Bold words slipped out. She giggled, slapping my arm lightly. "Badmaash! Chachi se aise baat karte hain?" But her eyes sparkled with something more – desire? The air thickened. Our knees touched as we leaned over a necklace. Hesitation: "Yeh galat hai, stop," my mind screamed. But the forbidden thrill – "Chachi ho ya koi apsara, ab control nahi hota."
That evening, during the family dinner, the tension built. We were all on the terrace, eating under the stars, fairy lights strung for the wedding vibe. She served me extra kheer, her fingers grazing mine on the bowl. "Kha le beta, tujhe pasand hai na?" Whispered so only I heard. Later, as everyone retired, a power cut hit again. The house plunged into darkness, only candles flickering. I couldn't sleep, tossing in my room, thinking of her. Midnight, I heard footsteps. Went to the kitchen for water, and there she was, in a white nighty, translucent in the moonlight filtering through the window. The fabric hugged her body, nipples faintly visible as hard points. She was drinking water, throat moving sensually.
"Rohan? Neend nahi aa rahi?" she asked, turning. Her hair loose now, cascading down her back. Smell of her body lotion – rose and sandalwood – filled the air. We stood close in the narrow kitchen. Accidental touch: I reached for a glass, my arm brushing her gaand. Soft, round. She gasped softly, "Uff..." Didn't move away. Eye contact intense. "Chachi, aap... bohot sundar lag rahi ho," I murmured, voice husky.
She bit her lip, hesitation in her eyes. "Beta, yeh sahi nahi... hum family hain." Guilt mirrored mine. But then, her hand touched my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "Par tu itna strong ho gaya hai." Surrender began. I pulled her close, our bodies pressing. Her chuche against my chest, soft and warm. Internal: "Thrill of taboo – chachi meri arms mein, yeh sapna hai?" We kissed – slow, tentative at first. Her lips tasted like cardamom from the paan she chewed earlier, sweet and spicy. Tongues met, exploring. She moaned softly, "Mmm... Rohan..."
Build-up intensified. I kissed her neck, gardan pe, sucking gently, leaving wet trails. She arched, "Aaaahhhh... beta, dheere..." Her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. Smells: her arousal mixing with kitchen spices – cumin, turmeric lingering from dinner. Textures: her nighty silky smooth, skin beneath velvety. I lifted her onto the counter, careful not to make noise – risk of getting caught high in joint family. Cousins sleeping nearby, any sound could wake them.
Guilt surged: "Yeh galat hai, chacha ko dhokha de raha hoon." But lust overpowered: "Ab ruk nahi sakta, chachi ki yeh jawani meri hai." I slipped the nighty straps down, exposing her chuche – full, D-cup, nipples dark brown, erect like ripe berries. Sucked one, tongue swirling. Taste: salty sweat, sweet skin. She whispered, "Uffff... choos le, beta. Kitne din se taras rahi thi." Masalna started – my hands kneading her chuche, pinching nipples. She writhed, "Zor se masal... aaaah!"
Fingering next. I hiked her nighty up, fingers tracing her thighs – smooth, slightly sticky with sweat. Reached her choot – panty wet, geeli ho gayi thi. Pulled it aside, felt her clit, swollen. "Chachi, kitni geeli ho," I groaned. Inserted a finger, slow, feeling her tight walls clench. She bucked, "Ohhh... finger daal, andar tak." Added another, pumping gently. Sounds: wet squelching, her moans muffled against my shoulder. Smell of her choot pani – musky, arousing.
She resisted a bit: "Nahin beta, ruk ja... koi aa jayega." But her body betrayed her, hips grinding against my hand. Surrender: "Par tu itna mazza de raha hai... continue kar." We moved to my room for secrecy – tiptoeing through dark corridors, hearts racing. Door locked, candle lit. Stripped her fully – nighty off, panty discarded. Her body glowed: curves like a Bollywood heroine, choot shaved clean, pink lips glistening.
Blowjob time. She knelt, eyes locked on mine. "Tera lund dekhti hoon," she said, pulling my pajamas down. My lund sprang out – 7 inches, hard, veins throbbing. "Kitna bada hai, beta! Mera muh mein fit hoga?" She licked the topi, tongue circling. Taste for her: salty pre-cum. Sucked deep, gagging slightly. "Gluk gluk..." sounds, sloppy. I held her head, thrusting gently. Internal: "Chachi mera lund choos rahi hai... yeh thrill, addiction ban jayega."
Foreplay rounds multiple: Back to choot chaatna. I laid her on the bed, spread her legs. Kissed inner thighs, teasing. Reached her choot – licked clit, sucking. Taste: tangy, sweet choot pani. She screamed softly, "Aaaahhhh... jeebh andar daal! Chaat le meri choot." Fingers in again, while tongue worked. She orgasmed first – body shaking, "Ohhh... aa rahi hoon! Uffff..." Juice flowed, I lapped it up.
Now, main act. Missionary first. I positioned over her, lund at her choot entrance. Rubbed topi on her clit, teasing. "Daal de, beta... ab saha nahi jata," she begged. Pushed in slow – tight, wet, enveloping. "Aaaahhhh... kitna mota hai tera lund!" Inch by inch, until balls deep. Started thrusting, slow build. Sounds: flesh slapping, bed creaking faintly. Sensations: her choot walls gripping, hot and slick. Internal: "Forbidden – chachi ki choot mein hoon, guilt aur excitement mix."
Pace increased. She wrapped legs around me, nails digging into my back. "Zor se chod, Rohan! Maar daalo meri choot ko." Multiple thrusts, her chuche bouncing. Kissed her deeply, tongues battling. She came again: "Aaaahhhh... phir aa rahi hoon!" Clenched around my lund, milking.
Position change: Doggy. She on all fours, gaand up – round, inviting. I slapped it lightly, "Kitni mast gaand hai chachi." Entered from behind, deeper. Gripped hips, pounding. Views: her back arched, hair swinging. Sounds: louder slaps, her moans "Uffff... gaand pe maar... chod do mujhe." Reached around, rubbed clit. She pushed back, matching rhythm. Sweat dripping, bodies glistening.
Next: Cowgirl. She straddled me, guiding my lund in. Rode slow at first, grinding. Her chuche in my face – sucked while she bounced. "Bounce kar, chachi... upar neeche." Increased speed, her gaand slapping my thighs. Internal reflection: "Yeh addiction hai – chachi ab meri hai, taboo ka mazza alag hi hai."
Reverse cowgirl: She turned, gaand facing me. View of her ass cheeks spreading, lund disappearing in. She twerked, "Dekh kaise le rahi hoon tera lund." I thumbed her gaand hole, teasing anal but not entering. Multiple orgasms for her – third one, squirting a bit, wetting sheets.
Climax: Back to missionary for creampie. Thrust hard, "Chachi, andar daal doon?" She nodded, "Haan beta, bhar de meri choot ko tere cum se." I exploded – hot spurts inside, filling her. Sensations: pulsing, warm flood. She milked every drop, moaning "Garam garam... aaaah!"
Afterglow: We cuddled, bodies entangled, sweat cooling. Her head on my chest, fingers tracing my abs. Reflection: Guilt hit hard. "Yeh kya kar diya? Family destroy ho jayegi agar pata chala." But she whispered, "Rohan, yeh galat tha par itna mazza kabhi nahi mila. Chacha se bhi nahi." Thrill: "Ab roz chahiye yeh." We kissed softly, planning next – "Kal wedding function mein, OYO book karte hain secretly."
But as we dozed, a knock on the door – cousin calling for early morning prep. Panic. Did anyone suspect? Teaser: Next morning, chachi felt nauseous – pregnancy scare? Or just exhaustion? And with chacha returning soon, risk of getting caught looms. Will we resist or dive deeper into this forbidden affair?
But amidst all this chaos, there was her – my chachi, Neha. She was my chacha's wife, married into the family about 15 years ago. Chacha was always busy with his business, traveling to Mumbai or Kolkata, leaving her to manage the household. At 35, she was a vision of desi beauty – fair skin like fresh malai, long black hair that she tied in a loose bun, letting strands fall teasingly over her shoulders. Her figure was voluptuous, the kind that made sarees look like they were painted on her body – full chuche that strained against her blouse, a slim waist that flared into wide hips, and a gaand that swayed hypnotically when she walked. She always wore traditional attire: silk sarees during the day, pallu draped modestly but slipping just enough to give a glimpse of her deep navel, and at night, thin nighties that clung to her curves in the humid Lucknow heat.
I had always admired her from afar, but this time, something was different. Maybe it was because I was older now, my hormones raging after being away in the city. Or perhaps it was the way she looked at me – those kohl-lined eyes lingering a second too long, a shy smile playing on her lips when our gazes met across the crowded living room. "Yeh galat hai, Rohan," I told myself internally, feeling a pang of guilt. She was my chachi, family, respected. But dil nahi manta tha. Every time she bent to pick up a thaali of sweets, her saree would slip, revealing the curve of her chuche, and my lund would twitch in my pants. I felt like a thief, stealing glances, but the thrill was addictive.
The trigger came during the wedding preparations. It was a hot afternoon, power cut as usual in Lucknow summers – the generator humming outside, but the heat still oppressive. Everyone was busy: maa and other aunties in the kitchen making laddoos, cousins practicing dance steps for the sangeet. Chachi was in the upstairs room, sorting through old jewelry for the bride. Chacha had left for a business trip that morning, saying he'd be back in two days. I was lounging in the veranda, scrolling my phone, when she called out, "Rohan beta, zara upar aa na. Yeh heavy box utha de."
I climbed the stairs, heart pounding for no reason. The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn to keep out the sun, fan whirring lazily. She was sitting on the bed, surrounded by velvet pouches of gold necklaces and bangles. Her red saree was damp with sweat, clinging to her body, outlining her bra straps and the swell of her chuche. The smell hit me first – her jasmine perfume mixed with the musky scent of her sweat, intoxicating. "Haan chachi, kya karna hai?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
She pointed to a wooden trunk in the corner. "Woh box neeche rakh de, beta. Bohot bhari hai." As I bent to lift it, she stood up to help, her hand brushing mine accidentally. Electric shock. Her skin was soft, warm. I looked up, our faces inches apart. Her breath was quick, lips parted slightly. "Sorry," she whispered, but didn't pull away. Internal monologue raced: "Kya kar raha hoon? Yeh chachi hai, par kitni khoobsurat hai. Uski aankhein... jaise mujhe bula rahi hain." Guilt twisted in my gut, but excitement won. I smiled, "Koi baat nahi, chachi. Aap itni mehnat kar rahi ho, main help karunga."
We moved the box together, and as we did, her pallu slipped completely, revealing her blouse – low-cut, showing deep cleavage where sweat beads glistened like pearls. My eyes darted there involuntarily. She noticed, blushed, but instead of covering up, she adjusted it slowly, teasingly. "Garmi bohot hai na?" she said softly, fanning herself with her hand, making her chuche rise and fall. Flirtation in her voice? Or was I imagining? We sat on the bed, sorting jewelry. Dialogues flowed: "Beta, tu bada ho gaya hai. Delhi mein koi girlfriend bani?" she asked playfully.
I laughed nervously. "Nahin chachi, padhai mein busy tha. Aapki tarah khoobsurat koi mili hi nahi." Bold words slipped out. She giggled, slapping my arm lightly. "Badmaash! Chachi se aise baat karte hain?" But her eyes sparkled with something more – desire? The air thickened. Our knees touched as we leaned over a necklace. Hesitation: "Yeh galat hai, stop," my mind screamed. But the forbidden thrill – "Chachi ho ya koi apsara, ab control nahi hota."
That evening, during the family dinner, the tension built. We were all on the terrace, eating under the stars, fairy lights strung for the wedding vibe. She served me extra kheer, her fingers grazing mine on the bowl. "Kha le beta, tujhe pasand hai na?" Whispered so only I heard. Later, as everyone retired, a power cut hit again. The house plunged into darkness, only candles flickering. I couldn't sleep, tossing in my room, thinking of her. Midnight, I heard footsteps. Went to the kitchen for water, and there she was, in a white nighty, translucent in the moonlight filtering through the window. The fabric hugged her body, nipples faintly visible as hard points. She was drinking water, throat moving sensually.
"Rohan? Neend nahi aa rahi?" she asked, turning. Her hair loose now, cascading down her back. Smell of her body lotion – rose and sandalwood – filled the air. We stood close in the narrow kitchen. Accidental touch: I reached for a glass, my arm brushing her gaand. Soft, round. She gasped softly, "Uff..." Didn't move away. Eye contact intense. "Chachi, aap... bohot sundar lag rahi ho," I murmured, voice husky.
She bit her lip, hesitation in her eyes. "Beta, yeh sahi nahi... hum family hain." Guilt mirrored mine. But then, her hand touched my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "Par tu itna strong ho gaya hai." Surrender began. I pulled her close, our bodies pressing. Her chuche against my chest, soft and warm. Internal: "Thrill of taboo – chachi meri arms mein, yeh sapna hai?" We kissed – slow, tentative at first. Her lips tasted like cardamom from the paan she chewed earlier, sweet and spicy. Tongues met, exploring. She moaned softly, "Mmm... Rohan..."
Build-up intensified. I kissed her neck, gardan pe, sucking gently, leaving wet trails. She arched, "Aaaahhhh... beta, dheere..." Her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. Smells: her arousal mixing with kitchen spices – cumin, turmeric lingering from dinner. Textures: her nighty silky smooth, skin beneath velvety. I lifted her onto the counter, careful not to make noise – risk of getting caught high in joint family. Cousins sleeping nearby, any sound could wake them.
Guilt surged: "Yeh galat hai, chacha ko dhokha de raha hoon." But lust overpowered: "Ab ruk nahi sakta, chachi ki yeh jawani meri hai." I slipped the nighty straps down, exposing her chuche – full, D-cup, nipples dark brown, erect like ripe berries. Sucked one, tongue swirling. Taste: salty sweat, sweet skin. She whispered, "Uffff... choos le, beta. Kitne din se taras rahi thi." Masalna started – my hands kneading her chuche, pinching nipples. She writhed, "Zor se masal... aaaah!"
Fingering next. I hiked her nighty up, fingers tracing her thighs – smooth, slightly sticky with sweat. Reached her choot – panty wet, geeli ho gayi thi. Pulled it aside, felt her clit, swollen. "Chachi, kitni geeli ho," I groaned. Inserted a finger, slow, feeling her tight walls clench. She bucked, "Ohhh... finger daal, andar tak." Added another, pumping gently. Sounds: wet squelching, her moans muffled against my shoulder. Smell of her choot pani – musky, arousing.
She resisted a bit: "Nahin beta, ruk ja... koi aa jayega." But her body betrayed her, hips grinding against my hand. Surrender: "Par tu itna mazza de raha hai... continue kar." We moved to my room for secrecy – tiptoeing through dark corridors, hearts racing. Door locked, candle lit. Stripped her fully – nighty off, panty discarded. Her body glowed: curves like a Bollywood heroine, choot shaved clean, pink lips glistening.
Blowjob time. She knelt, eyes locked on mine. "Tera lund dekhti hoon," she said, pulling my pajamas down. My lund sprang out – 7 inches, hard, veins throbbing. "Kitna bada hai, beta! Mera muh mein fit hoga?" She licked the topi, tongue circling. Taste for her: salty pre-cum. Sucked deep, gagging slightly. "Gluk gluk..." sounds, sloppy. I held her head, thrusting gently. Internal: "Chachi mera lund choos rahi hai... yeh thrill, addiction ban jayega."
Foreplay rounds multiple: Back to choot chaatna. I laid her on the bed, spread her legs. Kissed inner thighs, teasing. Reached her choot – licked clit, sucking. Taste: tangy, sweet choot pani. She screamed softly, "Aaaahhhh... jeebh andar daal! Chaat le meri choot." Fingers in again, while tongue worked. She orgasmed first – body shaking, "Ohhh... aa rahi hoon! Uffff..." Juice flowed, I lapped it up.
Now, main act. Missionary first. I positioned over her, lund at her choot entrance. Rubbed topi on her clit, teasing. "Daal de, beta... ab saha nahi jata," she begged. Pushed in slow – tight, wet, enveloping. "Aaaahhhh... kitna mota hai tera lund!" Inch by inch, until balls deep. Started thrusting, slow build. Sounds: flesh slapping, bed creaking faintly. Sensations: her choot walls gripping, hot and slick. Internal: "Forbidden – chachi ki choot mein hoon, guilt aur excitement mix."
Pace increased. She wrapped legs around me, nails digging into my back. "Zor se chod, Rohan! Maar daalo meri choot ko." Multiple thrusts, her chuche bouncing. Kissed her deeply, tongues battling. She came again: "Aaaahhhh... phir aa rahi hoon!" Clenched around my lund, milking.
Position change: Doggy. She on all fours, gaand up – round, inviting. I slapped it lightly, "Kitni mast gaand hai chachi." Entered from behind, deeper. Gripped hips, pounding. Views: her back arched, hair swinging. Sounds: louder slaps, her moans "Uffff... gaand pe maar... chod do mujhe." Reached around, rubbed clit. She pushed back, matching rhythm. Sweat dripping, bodies glistening.
Next: Cowgirl. She straddled me, guiding my lund in. Rode slow at first, grinding. Her chuche in my face – sucked while she bounced. "Bounce kar, chachi... upar neeche." Increased speed, her gaand slapping my thighs. Internal reflection: "Yeh addiction hai – chachi ab meri hai, taboo ka mazza alag hi hai."
Reverse cowgirl: She turned, gaand facing me. View of her ass cheeks spreading, lund disappearing in. She twerked, "Dekh kaise le rahi hoon tera lund." I thumbed her gaand hole, teasing anal but not entering. Multiple orgasms for her – third one, squirting a bit, wetting sheets.
Climax: Back to missionary for creampie. Thrust hard, "Chachi, andar daal doon?" She nodded, "Haan beta, bhar de meri choot ko tere cum se." I exploded – hot spurts inside, filling her. Sensations: pulsing, warm flood. She milked every drop, moaning "Garam garam... aaaah!"
Afterglow: We cuddled, bodies entangled, sweat cooling. Her head on my chest, fingers tracing my abs. Reflection: Guilt hit hard. "Yeh kya kar diya? Family destroy ho jayegi agar pata chala." But she whispered, "Rohan, yeh galat tha par itna mazza kabhi nahi mila. Chacha se bhi nahi." Thrill: "Ab roz chahiye yeh." We kissed softly, planning next – "Kal wedding function mein, OYO book karte hain secretly."
But as we dozed, a knock on the door – cousin calling for early morning prep. Panic. Did anyone suspect? Teaser: Next morning, chachi felt nauseous – pregnancy scare? Or just exhaustion? And with chacha returning soon, risk of getting caught looms. Will we resist or dive deeper into this forbidden affair?