My name is Priya, and I turned eighteen three months ago. We live in a typical middle-class joint family house in Lucknow — three bedrooms, one common hall, thin walls, and zero privacy. Papa, my widowed father Rajesh, is forty-two, tall, broad-shouldered, still handsome with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache that makes half the colony aunties whisper when he passes by. Since Mummy died five years ago, it has been just the two of us in the main bedroom, while Chacha-Chachi and their kids occupy the other rooms.
I know it’s wrong, but I have been fantasising about Papa for over a year now. It started innocently — catching glimpses of him changing shirts, seeing the bulge in his lungi when he thought no one was looking, feeling his strong arms when he hugged me goodnight. My body changed too. My breasts grew heavy and round, 34DD chuchi that strain against every blouse I wear. Boys in college stare, but I only think about Papa’s rough hands squeezing them.
The night it finally happened was during the summer power cuts. The whole house was sweating in the June heat. The fan stopped at 11 PM, and everyone retreated to their rooms. Papa and I shared the big double bed as usual. He wore only his white cotton boxer shorts; I wore a thin cotton nightie with no bra. My nipples poked through the fabric every time I moved.
I pretended to sleep, but my heart was racing. I shifted closer, letting my heavy boobs press against his arm. He stirred but didn’t move away. Emboldened, I turned towards him, sliding one leg over his thigh. My nightie rode up, and my bare thigh touched his skin. I felt his lund twitch under the thin boxer fabric.
“Priya… beta, so ja,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
“Papa, bohot garmi hai,” I whispered back, deliberately pressing my soft chuchi against his chest. “Aap bhi paseena se bheege ho.”
He didn’t answer, but his breathing changed. I moved my hand slowly, resting it on his hard stomach, then lower, until my fingers brushed the waistband of his boxer. His lund was already half-hard, thick and long even through the cloth. I traced its outline gently. He inhaled sharply.
“Priya… yeh galat hai,” he said, but his hand came up and cupped my breast almost involuntarily. His palm was rough, calloused from years of office work and gym. When his thumb grazed my nipple, I moaned softly.
“Papa… mujhe aapki zaroorat hai,” I confessed in a trembling voice. “Main ab badi ho gayi hoon. Mujhe sab samajh aata hai.”
He groaned, turned towards me, and suddenly his mouth was on mine. It was my first real kiss — hungry, desperate, his tongue pushing inside, tasting me. His moustache scratched my soft skin deliciously. While kissing, his big hand squeezed my left boob hard, pinching the nipple until I whimpered.
He pulled my nightie up and over my head in one swift motion. I was completely naked underneath. My big chuchi bounced free, dark nipples stiff and aching. Papa stared at them in the faint moonlight filtering through the window.
“Kitni badi aur juicy chuchi hai meri beti ki,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard like a starving man. His tongue swirled, teeth grazed, and I arched my back, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Papa… ahhh… choosiye… zor se,” I begged.
He switched to the other breast, leaving the first one wet and shining. His free hand slid down my belly to my virgin chut. I was already soaking. When his thick finger parted my folds and touched my clit, I cried out.
“Shhh… awaaz mat karna, sab jag jayenge,” he warned, but he didn’t stop. He rubbed my clit in slow circles while sucking my boobs. My hips bucked against his hand.
I reached down and pulled his boxer off. His lund sprang free — thick, veiny, at least 8 inches, the head already leaking pre-cum. I wrapped my small hand around it, barely able to circle the girth.
“Papa ka itna mota lund,” I whispered in awe, stroking slowly. “Meri tight chut mein kaise jayega?”
He growled and pushed me onto my back. Kneeling between my legs, he spread them wide. My pink virgin chut was exposed, glistening. He leaned down and licked — one long stroke from bottom to top. I almost screamed.
“Priya ki chut kitni rasili aur tight hai,” he said, voice muffled against my folds. He licked again, then sucked my clit gently. Two thick fingers pushed inside slowly, stretching me for the first time. It hurt a little, but the pleasure was stronger.
“Papa… please… ab daaliye,” I pleaded.
He moved up, positioning his lund at my entrance. The fat head pressed against my virgin opening.
“Dard hoga beta… saans rok lena,” he said softly.
He pushed. The head popped in, stretching me wide. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Slowly, inch by inch, he fed his thick lund into my tight chut. Halfway in, he met resistance — my seal. With one firm thrust, he broke it. Sharp pain shot through me, but it quickly melted into fullness.
“Ho gaya… meri beti ki seal toot gayi,” he groaned, fully buried inside me. He stayed still, letting me adjust, kissing my tears away.
Then he started moving — slow, deep strokes. My pain turned to pleasure fast. My big boobs jiggled with every thrust. He grabbed them, squeezing hard while fucking me steadily.
“Papa… zor se… chodo mujhe,” I moaned.
He increased speed, pounding harder. The bed creaked softly. His heavy balls slapped against my ass. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Priya… meri randi beti… kitni tight chut hai teri,” he grunted.
Hearing him call me randi pushed me over the edge. My first orgasm with a lund inside me crashed through my body. My chut clenched around him, milking his shaft. I buried my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries.
He kept fucking through my climax, then pulled out suddenly. “Muh khol,” he ordered.
I obeyed instantly. He stroked his wet lund twice and erupted — thick ropes of cum shooting into my open mouth and over my big boobs. I swallowed what landed on my tongue, tasting my father for the first time.
We lay panting, his cum cooling on my skin. He kissed me deeply again, tasting himself on my lips.
“Yeh sirf shuruaat hai, beta,” he whispered. “Ab tu meri personal randi hai. Har raat Papa tujhe chodega.”
That night changed everything. The next morning, we acted normal in front of the family — me helping in the kitchen, him leaving for office. But when everyone was busy, he pulled me into the store room, lifted my skirt, and fucked me quick and hard against the wall, hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
In the afternoons when the house napped, he taught me new things. One day he made me kneel and give my first blowjob. I struggled to take even half his thick lund, but he was patient, guiding my head, teaching me to swirl my tongue around the head, suck his balls, deepthroat as much as I could. When he came, he held my head and filled my throat.
Another afternoon, he bent me over the bed and licked my ass for the first time. “Ek din yahan bhi daalunga,” he promised, pushing a wet finger inside. The thought made me cum instantly.
Evenings were riskier. During power cuts, we’d lie on the terrace under the stars. He’d fuck me missionary, then doggy, making my big chuchi swing as he pounded from behind. One night he made me ride him — my first time on top. I bounced slowly at first, then faster, grinding my clit against him until we both came together.
We became addicted. He started buying me sexier clothes — low-cut blouses that showed deep cleavage, tight leggings that hugged my ass. At family functions, he’d sneak glances down my blouse, then later punish-fuck me for “teasing” him.
One risky night, Chachi was in the next room. Papa fucked me slowly, spooning from behind, one hand over my mouth, the other rubbing my clit. I came twice, biting his palm to stay silent.
Months passed. My virgin body became a woman’s — shaped by Papa’s thick lund. I learned to deepthroat fully, to take him in my ass (that first anal night was painful but eventually blissful), to beg like a proper randi.
Sometimes guilt hit him. “Beta, humein rok dena chahiye,” he’d say after cumming inside me.
But I’d just climb on top again. “Papa, main aapki hoon. Mujhe aapka lund chahiye har din.”
And he’d give in, always.
Now, whenever I see him in his office shirt, I remember how that same man has claimed every hole of his daughter’s body. Our secret incest chudai continues — forbidden, intense, endless.
I know society would call it wrong, but in our bed, under the mosquito net, with his thick lund buried deep in my chut and his mouth on my big chuchi, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Papa’s personal randi beti, forever.
I know it’s wrong, but I have been fantasising about Papa for over a year now. It started innocently — catching glimpses of him changing shirts, seeing the bulge in his lungi when he thought no one was looking, feeling his strong arms when he hugged me goodnight. My body changed too. My breasts grew heavy and round, 34DD chuchi that strain against every blouse I wear. Boys in college stare, but I only think about Papa’s rough hands squeezing them.
The night it finally happened was during the summer power cuts. The whole house was sweating in the June heat. The fan stopped at 11 PM, and everyone retreated to their rooms. Papa and I shared the big double bed as usual. He wore only his white cotton boxer shorts; I wore a thin cotton nightie with no bra. My nipples poked through the fabric every time I moved.
I pretended to sleep, but my heart was racing. I shifted closer, letting my heavy boobs press against his arm. He stirred but didn’t move away. Emboldened, I turned towards him, sliding one leg over his thigh. My nightie rode up, and my bare thigh touched his skin. I felt his lund twitch under the thin boxer fabric.
“Priya… beta, so ja,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
“Papa, bohot garmi hai,” I whispered back, deliberately pressing my soft chuchi against his chest. “Aap bhi paseena se bheege ho.”
He didn’t answer, but his breathing changed. I moved my hand slowly, resting it on his hard stomach, then lower, until my fingers brushed the waistband of his boxer. His lund was already half-hard, thick and long even through the cloth. I traced its outline gently. He inhaled sharply.
“Priya… yeh galat hai,” he said, but his hand came up and cupped my breast almost involuntarily. His palm was rough, calloused from years of office work and gym. When his thumb grazed my nipple, I moaned softly.
“Papa… mujhe aapki zaroorat hai,” I confessed in a trembling voice. “Main ab badi ho gayi hoon. Mujhe sab samajh aata hai.”
He groaned, turned towards me, and suddenly his mouth was on mine. It was my first real kiss — hungry, desperate, his tongue pushing inside, tasting me. His moustache scratched my soft skin deliciously. While kissing, his big hand squeezed my left boob hard, pinching the nipple until I whimpered.
He pulled my nightie up and over my head in one swift motion. I was completely naked underneath. My big chuchi bounced free, dark nipples stiff and aching. Papa stared at them in the faint moonlight filtering through the window.
“Kitni badi aur juicy chuchi hai meri beti ki,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard like a starving man. His tongue swirled, teeth grazed, and I arched my back, fingers tangling in his hair.
“Papa… ahhh… choosiye… zor se,” I begged.
He switched to the other breast, leaving the first one wet and shining. His free hand slid down my belly to my virgin chut. I was already soaking. When his thick finger parted my folds and touched my clit, I cried out.
“Shhh… awaaz mat karna, sab jag jayenge,” he warned, but he didn’t stop. He rubbed my clit in slow circles while sucking my boobs. My hips bucked against his hand.
I reached down and pulled his boxer off. His lund sprang free — thick, veiny, at least 8 inches, the head already leaking pre-cum. I wrapped my small hand around it, barely able to circle the girth.
“Papa ka itna mota lund,” I whispered in awe, stroking slowly. “Meri tight chut mein kaise jayega?”
He growled and pushed me onto my back. Kneeling between my legs, he spread them wide. My pink virgin chut was exposed, glistening. He leaned down and licked — one long stroke from bottom to top. I almost screamed.
“Priya ki chut kitni rasili aur tight hai,” he said, voice muffled against my folds. He licked again, then sucked my clit gently. Two thick fingers pushed inside slowly, stretching me for the first time. It hurt a little, but the pleasure was stronger.
“Papa… please… ab daaliye,” I pleaded.
He moved up, positioning his lund at my entrance. The fat head pressed against my virgin opening.
“Dard hoga beta… saans rok lena,” he said softly.
He pushed. The head popped in, stretching me wide. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Slowly, inch by inch, he fed his thick lund into my tight chut. Halfway in, he met resistance — my seal. With one firm thrust, he broke it. Sharp pain shot through me, but it quickly melted into fullness.
“Ho gaya… meri beti ki seal toot gayi,” he groaned, fully buried inside me. He stayed still, letting me adjust, kissing my tears away.
Then he started moving — slow, deep strokes. My pain turned to pleasure fast. My big boobs jiggled with every thrust. He grabbed them, squeezing hard while fucking me steadily.
“Papa… zor se… chodo mujhe,” I moaned.
He increased speed, pounding harder. The bed creaked softly. His heavy balls slapped against my ass. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“Priya… meri randi beti… kitni tight chut hai teri,” he grunted.
Hearing him call me randi pushed me over the edge. My first orgasm with a lund inside me crashed through my body. My chut clenched around him, milking his shaft. I buried my face in his shoulder to muffle my cries.
He kept fucking through my climax, then pulled out suddenly. “Muh khol,” he ordered.
I obeyed instantly. He stroked his wet lund twice and erupted — thick ropes of cum shooting into my open mouth and over my big boobs. I swallowed what landed on my tongue, tasting my father for the first time.
We lay panting, his cum cooling on my skin. He kissed me deeply again, tasting himself on my lips.
“Yeh sirf shuruaat hai, beta,” he whispered. “Ab tu meri personal randi hai. Har raat Papa tujhe chodega.”
That night changed everything. The next morning, we acted normal in front of the family — me helping in the kitchen, him leaving for office. But when everyone was busy, he pulled me into the store room, lifted my skirt, and fucked me quick and hard against the wall, hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
In the afternoons when the house napped, he taught me new things. One day he made me kneel and give my first blowjob. I struggled to take even half his thick lund, but he was patient, guiding my head, teaching me to swirl my tongue around the head, suck his balls, deepthroat as much as I could. When he came, he held my head and filled my throat.
Another afternoon, he bent me over the bed and licked my ass for the first time. “Ek din yahan bhi daalunga,” he promised, pushing a wet finger inside. The thought made me cum instantly.
Evenings were riskier. During power cuts, we’d lie on the terrace under the stars. He’d fuck me missionary, then doggy, making my big chuchi swing as he pounded from behind. One night he made me ride him — my first time on top. I bounced slowly at first, then faster, grinding my clit against him until we both came together.
We became addicted. He started buying me sexier clothes — low-cut blouses that showed deep cleavage, tight leggings that hugged my ass. At family functions, he’d sneak glances down my blouse, then later punish-fuck me for “teasing” him.
One risky night, Chachi was in the next room. Papa fucked me slowly, spooning from behind, one hand over my mouth, the other rubbing my clit. I came twice, biting his palm to stay silent.
Months passed. My virgin body became a woman’s — shaped by Papa’s thick lund. I learned to deepthroat fully, to take him in my ass (that first anal night was painful but eventually blissful), to beg like a proper randi.
Sometimes guilt hit him. “Beta, humein rok dena chahiye,” he’d say after cumming inside me.
But I’d just climb on top again. “Papa, main aapki hoon. Mujhe aapka lund chahiye har din.”
And he’d give in, always.
Now, whenever I see him in his office shirt, I remember how that same man has claimed every hole of his daughter’s body. Our secret incest chudai continues — forbidden, intense, endless.
I know society would call it wrong, but in our bed, under the mosquito net, with his thick lund buried deep in my chut and his mouth on my big chuchi, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Papa’s personal randi beti, forever.