Sizzling bhabhi-devar forbidden romance ignites during a stormy night. Intense passion, slow seduction, explicit chudai in multiple positions, creampie climax, and lingering guilt-laced desire.
Writer: Aaradhya Mehta
Content:
My name is Rohan. I’m twenty-six, stuck in this endless cycle of job exam prep, living in my elder brother Vikram bhaiya’s house in a quiet Delhi locality. Two years ago, I moved in after college—supposed to be temporary, but temporary became permanent. The house is big, old-fashioned, with a courtyard, terrace, and rooms that echo when no one’s talking. And the person who fills those echoes most is Anjali bhabhi—my brother’s wife, thirty-two, the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you and then refuses to leave your head.
At first I only noticed the obvious things: the way she moved gracefully in her cotton sarees, the soft curve of her hips when she walked, the way her pallu sometimes slipped just enough to reveal the damp outline of her blouse in summer heat. I told myself it was normal. She’s family. Bhabhi. Respect. But Delhi summers are merciless; they turn everything into sweat and longing. One afternoon I was in the courtyard pouring water over my head to cool off, vest clinging to my chest, when I turned and saw her watching from the doorway. Her eyes travelled slowly over my wet skin, lingering on my stomach, my arms. When our gazes met she looked away quickly, cheeks pink, but something electric passed between us. That night I jerked off thinking of her for the first time, hating myself as I came hard into my fist.
I tried to keep distance after that. But the house is small in the ways that matter. Corridors are narrow, kitchen crowded, excuses to brush past each other endless.
The first real touch happened by accident—or maybe not. I was reaching for a glass on the top shelf while she was rolling rotis beside me. My arm grazed the side of her breast. Soft, heavy, warm even through blouse and bra. She inhaled sharply but didn’t move away. I froze, feeling her nipple harden against my bicep. My lund twitched instantly. When I stepped back she adjusted her pallu with trembling fingers, eyes lowered, but I saw the flush climbing her throat.
From then on I started looking for chances.
I’d pass behind her in the hallway and let my fingers trail across the exposed strip of skin at her waist where saree and petticoat met. She’d shiver but never protest. I’d sit on the terrace pretending to study while she hung laundry, watching her pallu slip again and again, revealing deep cleavage glistening with sweat. Once she bent to pick up a fallen dupatta and her saree stretched tight across her gaand—round, full, perfect. I had to adjust myself in my shorts to hide the erection.
At night I’d lie awake listening to the fan, imagining peeling that saree off her inch by inch, tasting the salt on her skin, burying myself inside the warmth I’d only felt in passing brushes.
She started reacting too. I’d catch her staring when I came back from a run, vest soaked, muscles pumped. Her eyes would darken, lips part slightly. Once after a bath I walked out with just a towel low on my hips. She was bringing fresh towels—terrible timing, perfect timing. We stood close in the steamy bathroom doorway. Water dripped from my hair onto my chest. She stared openly at the V of muscle disappearing under the towel. Her breathing changed. I saw her nipples tighten under the thin fabric of her nightie. My lund stirred, lifting the towel. Her gaze dropped to it, widened, then flicked back to my face. Neither of us spoke. She handed me the towels, fingers brushing mine, and fled.
I knew she wanted it too. The guilt was there—bhaiya is good to me, trusts me—but the hunger was stronger.
The late nights began when bhaiya travelled. Power cuts were common. One night the electricity died just after dinner. Heat wrapped around us like a blanket. Bhabhi lit candles and sat on the living room sofa fanning herself. I came down in shorts, chest bare, pretending I couldn’t sleep either.
We talked—small things at first, then deeper. She spoke about how lonely the house felt when bhaiya was away. I told her how I sometimes felt lost, directionless. The candlelight made her skin glow, loose strands of hair sticking to her neck with sweat. When thunder crashed she jumped and grabbed my arm. I covered her hand with mine. She didn’t pull away.
I started fanning her with the newspaper. My knuckles brushed her cheek, her collarbone. She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them they were darker, heavier.
“Rohan…” she whispered.
I leaned in slowly, giving her time to stop me. She didn’t. Our lips met—soft, testing. Then she sighed into my mouth and everything exploded. She tasted sweet, like the mishri she keeps in the kitchen. Her tongue shy at first, then eager. I cupped her face, angled deeper. She clutched my shoulders, nails digging in.
We broke apart breathing hard.
“This is wrong,” she said, voice shaking.
“I know,” I answered. “But I’ve wanted you for months.”
She searched my face, then kissed me again—harder, desperate. My hands went to her waist, pulling her closer. She melted against me.
That night we only kissed, hands roaming over clothes, learning curves and heat. But it was enough to seal our fate.
After that we became reckless in careful ways.
Mornings in the kitchen while breakfast cooked: I’d stand behind her at the stove, hands on her hips, grinding slowly against her gaand until she whimpered. She’d reach back and squeeze my lund through my pants, stroking until I was leaking.
Afternoons when bhaiya was at work: quick urgent sessions in the storeroom. I’d push her against shelves, lift her saree, slide her panties aside and finger her until she came biting my shoulder to stay quiet.
But we both knew we needed more. A whole night. Skin on skin. No interruptions.
The storm gave us that.
Bhaiya’s trip got extended again. The first big pre-monsoon rain hit hard—power out, windows rattling, streets flooded. Bhabhi wore a thin cream saree that turned almost transparent with the humidity. No petticoat. I could see the shadow between her thighs when she moved.
We ended up on the sofa again, closer this time. Lightning illuminated her face—beautiful, nervous, wanting. When thunder roared she climbed into my lap without thinking, arms around my neck.
I kissed her slowly, deeply. Hands roaming freely now. I pulled her pallu down, watched the fabric slide off her shoulder. Unwrapped the saree completely until she sat straddling me in just blouse and panties. Her breasts strained against the blouse, nipples dark shadows.
I unhooked it slowly, one hook at a time. When it opened her chuchi spilled out—heavy, perfect teardrops with dark stiff nipples. I groaned. She was more beautiful than any fantasy. I cupped them, thumbs circling nipples. She arched, gasping.
I bent and took one in my mouth—hot, wet suction. She moaned my name, fingers tight in my hair. I sucked harder, grazed with teeth, switched sides until both nipples were swollen and wet with my saliva. Her hips ground against my erection.
“Bedroom,” she whispered.
I carried her easily. Laid her on the bed she shares with my brother. The taboo made it hotter.
I kissed down her body, peeled off her soaked panties. Her chut was beautiful—plump lips, glistening, small neat strip of hair. The scent—musky, feminine—made my mouth water. I spread her thighs and licked slowly from bottom to top. She cried out, hips bucking. I held her down and feasted—tongue circling her clit, dipping inside, sucking her lips. She was so responsive, thighs trembling. I slid two fingers in, curled, stroked that spot. She came fast and hard, flooding my mouth, chanting my name.
I rose up, face wet. She pulled me down and kissed me desperately, tasting herself.
Then she pushed me onto my back. Eyes never leaving mine, she pulled down my shorts. My lund sprang free—thick, veined, head shiny with precum. She wrapped her soft hand around it, stroked once, twice. Then leaned down and licked the head, slow swirl of tongue. I groaned. She took me in—warm wet mouth, sucking gently at first, then deeper, cheeks hollow. Her tongue worked magic. I fisted the sheets to keep from thrusting too hard.
When I was close I pulled her up. “Want to come inside you.”
She straddled me, positioned my lund at her entrance. Sank down slowly. The heat, the tightness—better than I’d dreamed. She was soaked, gripping me perfectly. When I was fully inside we both stilled, breathing hard.
Then she started moving—slow rolls, then lifting and dropping. Her breasts bounced hypnotically. I gripped her hips, thrust up to meet her. Wet sounds filled the room, her chut squelching around my lund.
She rode harder, grinding her clit against me. I reached down and rubbed it in circles. She came again, walls pulsing, crying out.
I flipped us over, still inside. Missionary now—I needed to see her face. I started slow deep thrusts, building speed. Her legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my back.
“Kitna bada hai tera lund,” she moaned. “Bhar raha hai mujhe.”
Those words nearly undid me. I pounded harder, bed creaking. Sweat dripped from me onto her breasts. I sucked her neck, her nipples, marking her.
Another orgasm hit her—she clawed my back, bit my shoulder.
I pulled out, flipped her onto hands and knees. Her gaand—round, perfect—wiggled invitingly. I entered in one thrust. She screamed into the pillow. The angle was deeper. I gripped her hips and fucked hard, balls slapping her clit. The sight of my lund disappearing into her chut again and again was obscene, perfect.
She pushed back, meeting every thrust. “Chod mujhe zor se… make me yours.”
I slapped her ass lightly—once, twice. She moaned louder.
When I felt my orgasm building I asked, “Andar?”
“Yes… fill me… creampie de apni bhabhi ko.”
Three more deep thrusts and I came—hot ropes shooting deep inside her. She came with me, milking every drop.
We collapsed, still joined. I stayed inside until I softened, then rolled us sideways, spooning her. My hand cupped her breast possessively.
Round two started slow—kissing, touching, exploring. I ate her again until she came on my tongue twice. Then she rode me reverse cowgirl. I watched my lund stretch her, watched her gaand bounce. I wet a finger and circled her back hole. She tensed, then relaxed. I pressed gently until the tip entered. She gasped, pushed back, taking more. The tightness made me thrust harder. She came spectacularly, squirting a little for the first time.
Round three was against the wall. I lifted her, her legs around my waist, saree bunched like a belt. I thrust upward while sucking her raw nipples. She bit my neck to muffle screams.
By morning we were exhausted, bodies sticky, sheets ruined. The storm had passed; birds sang outside.
She lay with her head on my chest, tracing patterns on my skin.
“What happens when bhaiya returns?” I asked quietly.
She was silent a long moment. “We’ll be careful. But I don’t want to stop.”
Relief and fresh arousal surged through me. I kissed her forehead. “Never.”
Since then we’ve perfected the art of secret passion. Quickies in the kitchen while tea boils. Slow afternoons in the guest room. Nights when bhaiya sleeps early—she sneaks to my room, or I to hers.
Every time we fuck the guilt flickers, but pleasure burns brighter. She’s become bolder—sending me flashes of cleavage during dinner, brushing my lund under the table with her foot.
I’m addicted to her taste, her sounds, the way her chut grips me when she comes. And she says she’s never felt so alive.
We know it can’t last forever. But for now, in the humid Delhi nights, behind closed doors and drawn curtains, Anjali bhabhi is mine—and I am completely, shamefully hers.
Writer: Aaradhya Mehta
Content:
My name is Rohan. I’m twenty-six, stuck in this endless cycle of job exam prep, living in my elder brother Vikram bhaiya’s house in a quiet Delhi locality. Two years ago, I moved in after college—supposed to be temporary, but temporary became permanent. The house is big, old-fashioned, with a courtyard, terrace, and rooms that echo when no one’s talking. And the person who fills those echoes most is Anjali bhabhi—my brother’s wife, thirty-two, the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you and then refuses to leave your head.
At first I only noticed the obvious things: the way she moved gracefully in her cotton sarees, the soft curve of her hips when she walked, the way her pallu sometimes slipped just enough to reveal the damp outline of her blouse in summer heat. I told myself it was normal. She’s family. Bhabhi. Respect. But Delhi summers are merciless; they turn everything into sweat and longing. One afternoon I was in the courtyard pouring water over my head to cool off, vest clinging to my chest, when I turned and saw her watching from the doorway. Her eyes travelled slowly over my wet skin, lingering on my stomach, my arms. When our gazes met she looked away quickly, cheeks pink, but something electric passed between us. That night I jerked off thinking of her for the first time, hating myself as I came hard into my fist.
I tried to keep distance after that. But the house is small in the ways that matter. Corridors are narrow, kitchen crowded, excuses to brush past each other endless.
The first real touch happened by accident—or maybe not. I was reaching for a glass on the top shelf while she was rolling rotis beside me. My arm grazed the side of her breast. Soft, heavy, warm even through blouse and bra. She inhaled sharply but didn’t move away. I froze, feeling her nipple harden against my bicep. My lund twitched instantly. When I stepped back she adjusted her pallu with trembling fingers, eyes lowered, but I saw the flush climbing her throat.
From then on I started looking for chances.
I’d pass behind her in the hallway and let my fingers trail across the exposed strip of skin at her waist where saree and petticoat met. She’d shiver but never protest. I’d sit on the terrace pretending to study while she hung laundry, watching her pallu slip again and again, revealing deep cleavage glistening with sweat. Once she bent to pick up a fallen dupatta and her saree stretched tight across her gaand—round, full, perfect. I had to adjust myself in my shorts to hide the erection.
At night I’d lie awake listening to the fan, imagining peeling that saree off her inch by inch, tasting the salt on her skin, burying myself inside the warmth I’d only felt in passing brushes.
She started reacting too. I’d catch her staring when I came back from a run, vest soaked, muscles pumped. Her eyes would darken, lips part slightly. Once after a bath I walked out with just a towel low on my hips. She was bringing fresh towels—terrible timing, perfect timing. We stood close in the steamy bathroom doorway. Water dripped from my hair onto my chest. She stared openly at the V of muscle disappearing under the towel. Her breathing changed. I saw her nipples tighten under the thin fabric of her nightie. My lund stirred, lifting the towel. Her gaze dropped to it, widened, then flicked back to my face. Neither of us spoke. She handed me the towels, fingers brushing mine, and fled.
I knew she wanted it too. The guilt was there—bhaiya is good to me, trusts me—but the hunger was stronger.
The late nights began when bhaiya travelled. Power cuts were common. One night the electricity died just after dinner. Heat wrapped around us like a blanket. Bhabhi lit candles and sat on the living room sofa fanning herself. I came down in shorts, chest bare, pretending I couldn’t sleep either.
We talked—small things at first, then deeper. She spoke about how lonely the house felt when bhaiya was away. I told her how I sometimes felt lost, directionless. The candlelight made her skin glow, loose strands of hair sticking to her neck with sweat. When thunder crashed she jumped and grabbed my arm. I covered her hand with mine. She didn’t pull away.
I started fanning her with the newspaper. My knuckles brushed her cheek, her collarbone. She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them they were darker, heavier.
“Rohan…” she whispered.
I leaned in slowly, giving her time to stop me. She didn’t. Our lips met—soft, testing. Then she sighed into my mouth and everything exploded. She tasted sweet, like the mishri she keeps in the kitchen. Her tongue shy at first, then eager. I cupped her face, angled deeper. She clutched my shoulders, nails digging in.
We broke apart breathing hard.
“This is wrong,” she said, voice shaking.
“I know,” I answered. “But I’ve wanted you for months.”
She searched my face, then kissed me again—harder, desperate. My hands went to her waist, pulling her closer. She melted against me.
That night we only kissed, hands roaming over clothes, learning curves and heat. But it was enough to seal our fate.
After that we became reckless in careful ways.
Mornings in the kitchen while breakfast cooked: I’d stand behind her at the stove, hands on her hips, grinding slowly against her gaand until she whimpered. She’d reach back and squeeze my lund through my pants, stroking until I was leaking.
Afternoons when bhaiya was at work: quick urgent sessions in the storeroom. I’d push her against shelves, lift her saree, slide her panties aside and finger her until she came biting my shoulder to stay quiet.
But we both knew we needed more. A whole night. Skin on skin. No interruptions.
The storm gave us that.
Bhaiya’s trip got extended again. The first big pre-monsoon rain hit hard—power out, windows rattling, streets flooded. Bhabhi wore a thin cream saree that turned almost transparent with the humidity. No petticoat. I could see the shadow between her thighs when she moved.
We ended up on the sofa again, closer this time. Lightning illuminated her face—beautiful, nervous, wanting. When thunder roared she climbed into my lap without thinking, arms around my neck.
I kissed her slowly, deeply. Hands roaming freely now. I pulled her pallu down, watched the fabric slide off her shoulder. Unwrapped the saree completely until she sat straddling me in just blouse and panties. Her breasts strained against the blouse, nipples dark shadows.
I unhooked it slowly, one hook at a time. When it opened her chuchi spilled out—heavy, perfect teardrops with dark stiff nipples. I groaned. She was more beautiful than any fantasy. I cupped them, thumbs circling nipples. She arched, gasping.
I bent and took one in my mouth—hot, wet suction. She moaned my name, fingers tight in my hair. I sucked harder, grazed with teeth, switched sides until both nipples were swollen and wet with my saliva. Her hips ground against my erection.
“Bedroom,” she whispered.
I carried her easily. Laid her on the bed she shares with my brother. The taboo made it hotter.
I kissed down her body, peeled off her soaked panties. Her chut was beautiful—plump lips, glistening, small neat strip of hair. The scent—musky, feminine—made my mouth water. I spread her thighs and licked slowly from bottom to top. She cried out, hips bucking. I held her down and feasted—tongue circling her clit, dipping inside, sucking her lips. She was so responsive, thighs trembling. I slid two fingers in, curled, stroked that spot. She came fast and hard, flooding my mouth, chanting my name.
I rose up, face wet. She pulled me down and kissed me desperately, tasting herself.
Then she pushed me onto my back. Eyes never leaving mine, she pulled down my shorts. My lund sprang free—thick, veined, head shiny with precum. She wrapped her soft hand around it, stroked once, twice. Then leaned down and licked the head, slow swirl of tongue. I groaned. She took me in—warm wet mouth, sucking gently at first, then deeper, cheeks hollow. Her tongue worked magic. I fisted the sheets to keep from thrusting too hard.
When I was close I pulled her up. “Want to come inside you.”
She straddled me, positioned my lund at her entrance. Sank down slowly. The heat, the tightness—better than I’d dreamed. She was soaked, gripping me perfectly. When I was fully inside we both stilled, breathing hard.
Then she started moving—slow rolls, then lifting and dropping. Her breasts bounced hypnotically. I gripped her hips, thrust up to meet her. Wet sounds filled the room, her chut squelching around my lund.
She rode harder, grinding her clit against me. I reached down and rubbed it in circles. She came again, walls pulsing, crying out.
I flipped us over, still inside. Missionary now—I needed to see her face. I started slow deep thrusts, building speed. Her legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my back.
“Kitna bada hai tera lund,” she moaned. “Bhar raha hai mujhe.”
Those words nearly undid me. I pounded harder, bed creaking. Sweat dripped from me onto her breasts. I sucked her neck, her nipples, marking her.
Another orgasm hit her—she clawed my back, bit my shoulder.
I pulled out, flipped her onto hands and knees. Her gaand—round, perfect—wiggled invitingly. I entered in one thrust. She screamed into the pillow. The angle was deeper. I gripped her hips and fucked hard, balls slapping her clit. The sight of my lund disappearing into her chut again and again was obscene, perfect.
She pushed back, meeting every thrust. “Chod mujhe zor se… make me yours.”
I slapped her ass lightly—once, twice. She moaned louder.
When I felt my orgasm building I asked, “Andar?”
“Yes… fill me… creampie de apni bhabhi ko.”
Three more deep thrusts and I came—hot ropes shooting deep inside her. She came with me, milking every drop.
We collapsed, still joined. I stayed inside until I softened, then rolled us sideways, spooning her. My hand cupped her breast possessively.
Round two started slow—kissing, touching, exploring. I ate her again until she came on my tongue twice. Then she rode me reverse cowgirl. I watched my lund stretch her, watched her gaand bounce. I wet a finger and circled her back hole. She tensed, then relaxed. I pressed gently until the tip entered. She gasped, pushed back, taking more. The tightness made me thrust harder. She came spectacularly, squirting a little for the first time.
Round three was against the wall. I lifted her, her legs around my waist, saree bunched like a belt. I thrust upward while sucking her raw nipples. She bit my neck to muffle screams.
By morning we were exhausted, bodies sticky, sheets ruined. The storm had passed; birds sang outside.
She lay with her head on my chest, tracing patterns on my skin.
“What happens when bhaiya returns?” I asked quietly.
She was silent a long moment. “We’ll be careful. But I don’t want to stop.”
Relief and fresh arousal surged through me. I kissed her forehead. “Never.”
Since then we’ve perfected the art of secret passion. Quickies in the kitchen while tea boils. Slow afternoons in the guest room. Nights when bhaiya sleeps early—she sneaks to my room, or I to hers.
Every time we fuck the guilt flickers, but pleasure burns brighter. She’s become bolder—sending me flashes of cleavage during dinner, brushing my lund under the table with her foot.
I’m addicted to her taste, her sounds, the way her chut grips me when she comes. And she says she’s never felt so alive.
We know it can’t last forever. But for now, in the humid Delhi nights, behind closed doors and drawn curtains, Anjali bhabhi is mine—and I am completely, shamefully hers.