My name is Rahul Verma, 21 years old, a management student from Delhi, always the responsible one in the family—good grades, part-time internships, planning everything. That summer, our extended family organized a week-long getaway to a rented cottage in the hills near Shimla—pine forests, apple orchards, misty views, the perfect escape from Delhi's scorching heat. The group was supposed to be big: parents, mausi-mausa, their daughter Tara (my cousin, 18, just finished school and awaiting college results), and a few others. But as we reached, heavy monsoons hit unexpectedly—torrential rain, landslides blocking the only road down. Phones barely worked; the caretaker left for his village, stocking us with essentials before going. Flights canceled, others delayed in Delhi—stranding just Tara and me in the cozy wooden cottage for what turned out to be a full week.
Tara had changed dramatically since the last family wedding two years ago. Back then, she was the awkward teen with braces; now, she was a stunning young woman—long straight black hair often tied in a messy bun or ponytail, big innocent doe eyes with long lashes that fluttered when nervous, a dimpled smile that lit her face, fair hill-skin with a natural pink flush on cheeks, soft full lips, and a body that had fully blossomed: perky 34C breasts that filled her sweaters and tops perfectly, a slim toned waist from school sports, flaring hips, and a thick bubble ass that looked incredible in her leggings, shorts, or the traditional salwars she packed. "Bhaiya, yeh toh adventure ho gaya!" she laughed when we realized we were alone, hugging me excitedly—her soft young body pressing close, faint scent of vanilla shampoo. I felt a forbidden spark but brushed it off as cousin protectiveness.
The cottage was quaint—two small bedrooms with creaky wooden beds, a living room with fireplace, kitchen with gas stove and stocked pantry, and a veranda overlooking fog-shrouded valleys. Rain pounded nonstop, thunder rumbling, power flickering often. Days blurred into cozy isolation: board games by candlelight (Antakshari, cards), cooking simple meals—maggi, eggs, or heating canned stuff—laughing over family memories. Tara adapted quickly, changing into comfy clothes for the chill: oversized hoodies and leggings that hugged her ass, or shorts and tank tops when inside warmth built. "Bhaiya, cold hai... fire jala do na," she'd say, curling on the couch, legs tucked.
Attraction built subtly. Mornings: waking to her making tea, bending over stove—ass outlined perfectly in leggings. Afternoons: reading books or playing cards on the floor—her leaning forward, hoodie gaping to show cleavage or bra lace. Evenings: sharing blanket by fireplace, bodies close for warmth, her head on my shoulder, soft breast brushing arm. Talks deep—she confessed school crushes were immature ("Boys sirf stare karte the bhaiya... tu different hai, caring"), excitement and fear about college. I'd share my stresses, missing "real connection." Hugs goodnight lingered, her pressing closer.
Nights cold and rainy; power cuts frequent. Third night, thunder scared her—"Bhaiya, dar lag raha... tere room mein so jaun?" Shared my bed "innocently"—her in tank top and panties (laundry issue), me in boxers. Cuddled under thick quilt for heat—her back to my chest, ass nestled against crotch. My hardness grew; she felt it, shifting but grinding subtly, breath quickening. "Rahul bhaiya... yeh kya ho raha?"
I turned her, eyes meeting in moonlight filtering through window. "Tara... hum cousins hain... yeh galat." But she whispered, "Sirf hamara secret... please bhaiya, touch karo." Kiss soft—lips brushing tentatively, then deepening, tongues exploring sweet forbidden taste. Hands roamed; peeled her tank—firm young tits spilling, pink nipples erect like cherries. Cupped gently, thumbs circling before sucking one deeply, tongue flicking as she arched. "Ahhh ??... bhaiya... chooso zor se... cousin ke boobs pi lo," she moaned, fingers tangling my hair, body writhing under me.
She reached down, stroking my thick 7.5-inch cock through boxers—hard as steel. "Bhaiya ka lund... itna mota aur garam." Pulled it out, stroking shyly then licking head, taking in warm wet mouth—eager virgin blows, bobbing deeper with guidance, gagging cutely but persistent, saliva making slick sounds in quiet cottage.Laid her back, removing panties—shaved teen pussy pink, puffy, dripping innocence. Rubbed clit, fingers sliding into tight heat. "Geeli ho gayi Tara... cousin bhaiya ke liye?" Ate ravenously—long licks along slit, sucking clit gently then hard, tongue probing until she came explosively, thighs clamping head, juices sweet flooding mouth, muffled screams into pillow as thunder crashed.
Positioned at entrance, rubbing cock along wet lips. "Dalun andar beta? Teri seal tod dun?" She begged tearfully, "Haan bhaiya... apni cousin ki virginity le lo... chod mujhe." Pushed slowly—impossible virgin tightness, pain cry then pleasure moan as adjusted. Thrust building—deep strokes, her tits bouncing, nails digging back. "Zor se chod bhaiya... haan phod do!"
Switched—cowgirl: she rode tentatively then wildly, grinding clit, ass slapping thighs; doggy: gripping bubble ass, spanking lightly as jiggled, pulling ponytail; missionary: legs wrapped, deep intimate eye contact whispering "I love you." Came multiple times, pussy clenching wildly. "Andar daal bhaiya... creampie kar cousin ke andar!" Flooded her young depths repeatedly.
Week became desire paradise. Mornings: wake-up oral by fireplace warmth. Kitchen: bent over counter quickies while making tea. Veranda: rain masking moans as fucked against railing, water splashing bodies. Indoor marathons—anal after gentle fingering and lube (she cried pleasure-pain, addicted to fullness), light bondage with her dupatta tying wrists, role-play as strangers stranded in storm.
Emotional confessions between rounds—she'd always crushed on me, felt safe exploring firsts; I adored her innocence yet passion, protective lover. Rain cleared roads end of week; parents arrived none wiser. But our desire didn't end—secret meets in Delhi/Chandigarh, messages, promises. Cottage week forged unbreakable taboo bond—cousins turned soulmates in lust and love.
Tara had changed dramatically since the last family wedding two years ago. Back then, she was the awkward teen with braces; now, she was a stunning young woman—long straight black hair often tied in a messy bun or ponytail, big innocent doe eyes with long lashes that fluttered when nervous, a dimpled smile that lit her face, fair hill-skin with a natural pink flush on cheeks, soft full lips, and a body that had fully blossomed: perky 34C breasts that filled her sweaters and tops perfectly, a slim toned waist from school sports, flaring hips, and a thick bubble ass that looked incredible in her leggings, shorts, or the traditional salwars she packed. "Bhaiya, yeh toh adventure ho gaya!" she laughed when we realized we were alone, hugging me excitedly—her soft young body pressing close, faint scent of vanilla shampoo. I felt a forbidden spark but brushed it off as cousin protectiveness.
The cottage was quaint—two small bedrooms with creaky wooden beds, a living room with fireplace, kitchen with gas stove and stocked pantry, and a veranda overlooking fog-shrouded valleys. Rain pounded nonstop, thunder rumbling, power flickering often. Days blurred into cozy isolation: board games by candlelight (Antakshari, cards), cooking simple meals—maggi, eggs, or heating canned stuff—laughing over family memories. Tara adapted quickly, changing into comfy clothes for the chill: oversized hoodies and leggings that hugged her ass, or shorts and tank tops when inside warmth built. "Bhaiya, cold hai... fire jala do na," she'd say, curling on the couch, legs tucked.
Attraction built subtly. Mornings: waking to her making tea, bending over stove—ass outlined perfectly in leggings. Afternoons: reading books or playing cards on the floor—her leaning forward, hoodie gaping to show cleavage or bra lace. Evenings: sharing blanket by fireplace, bodies close for warmth, her head on my shoulder, soft breast brushing arm. Talks deep—she confessed school crushes were immature ("Boys sirf stare karte the bhaiya... tu different hai, caring"), excitement and fear about college. I'd share my stresses, missing "real connection." Hugs goodnight lingered, her pressing closer.
Nights cold and rainy; power cuts frequent. Third night, thunder scared her—"Bhaiya, dar lag raha... tere room mein so jaun?" Shared my bed "innocently"—her in tank top and panties (laundry issue), me in boxers. Cuddled under thick quilt for heat—her back to my chest, ass nestled against crotch. My hardness grew; she felt it, shifting but grinding subtly, breath quickening. "Rahul bhaiya... yeh kya ho raha?"
I turned her, eyes meeting in moonlight filtering through window. "Tara... hum cousins hain... yeh galat." But she whispered, "Sirf hamara secret... please bhaiya, touch karo." Kiss soft—lips brushing tentatively, then deepening, tongues exploring sweet forbidden taste. Hands roamed; peeled her tank—firm young tits spilling, pink nipples erect like cherries. Cupped gently, thumbs circling before sucking one deeply, tongue flicking as she arched. "Ahhh ??... bhaiya... chooso zor se... cousin ke boobs pi lo," she moaned, fingers tangling my hair, body writhing under me.
She reached down, stroking my thick 7.5-inch cock through boxers—hard as steel. "Bhaiya ka lund... itna mota aur garam." Pulled it out, stroking shyly then licking head, taking in warm wet mouth—eager virgin blows, bobbing deeper with guidance, gagging cutely but persistent, saliva making slick sounds in quiet cottage.Laid her back, removing panties—shaved teen pussy pink, puffy, dripping innocence. Rubbed clit, fingers sliding into tight heat. "Geeli ho gayi Tara... cousin bhaiya ke liye?" Ate ravenously—long licks along slit, sucking clit gently then hard, tongue probing until she came explosively, thighs clamping head, juices sweet flooding mouth, muffled screams into pillow as thunder crashed.
Positioned at entrance, rubbing cock along wet lips. "Dalun andar beta? Teri seal tod dun?" She begged tearfully, "Haan bhaiya... apni cousin ki virginity le lo... chod mujhe." Pushed slowly—impossible virgin tightness, pain cry then pleasure moan as adjusted. Thrust building—deep strokes, her tits bouncing, nails digging back. "Zor se chod bhaiya... haan phod do!"
Switched—cowgirl: she rode tentatively then wildly, grinding clit, ass slapping thighs; doggy: gripping bubble ass, spanking lightly as jiggled, pulling ponytail; missionary: legs wrapped, deep intimate eye contact whispering "I love you." Came multiple times, pussy clenching wildly. "Andar daal bhaiya... creampie kar cousin ke andar!" Flooded her young depths repeatedly.
Week became desire paradise. Mornings: wake-up oral by fireplace warmth. Kitchen: bent over counter quickies while making tea. Veranda: rain masking moans as fucked against railing, water splashing bodies. Indoor marathons—anal after gentle fingering and lube (she cried pleasure-pain, addicted to fullness), light bondage with her dupatta tying wrists, role-play as strangers stranded in storm.
Emotional confessions between rounds—she'd always crushed on me, felt safe exploring firsts; I adored her innocence yet passion, protective lover. Rain cleared roads end of week; parents arrived none wiser. But our desire didn't end—secret meets in Delhi/Chandigarh, messages, promises. Cottage week forged unbreakable taboo bond—cousins turned soulmates in lust and love.