The summer heat in our small village in Rajasthan was merciless that year, the kind that made the air shimmer above the dusty fields and turned every breath into a labored gasp. I was twenty, home from my engineering college in Jaipur for the holidays, and my parents had sent me to stay with my Mausi Reena for a month. Mausa-ji had passed away three years earlier in a tractor accident, leaving Mausi alone in the old family haveli with only the elderly servants and occasional visits from relatives. She was my mother’s younger sister, thirty-eight, but time had been kind to her in ways that made my teenage mind wander into dangerous territory.
Mausi Reena was the epitome of ripe, traditional beauty. Fair-skinned despite the harsh sun, with long black hair always braided loosely down her back, kohl-lined eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and a body that no amount of modest cotton sarees could fully conceal. Her breasts were legendary in the family whispers—massive, heavy 40DD chuchi that strained against every blouse, swaying hypnotically when she walked with the water pot balanced on her hip. Her waist was soft and inviting, flaring into wide hips and a gaand that filled her petticoats perfectly. She wore simple bindis and glass bangles that jingled softly, but there was an unspoken sensuality about her—the way her pallu slipped occasionally, revealing deep cleavage glistening with sweat, or how her full lips curved when she scolded the servants.
The haveli was large but quiet most days. Mausi managed everything herself—cooking, cleaning, tending the small courtyard garden. I arrived by bus, dusty and tired, and she greeted me at the gate with open arms. Her hug pressed those enormous breasts against my chest, soft and warm through her thin saree. I felt myself harden instantly, ashamed but unable to pull away.
“Aryan beta, kitna bada ho gaya hai tu!” she exclaimed, holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes scanned me—tall now, gym-toned from college hostels, a faint stubble on my jaw. “Ab to jawan mard lagta hai.”
I mumbled something, trying not to stare at how her blouse gaped slightly, offering a glimpse of creamy flesh and the edge of a white bra. That night, we ate dinner on the floor—simple dal, roti, sabzi. She served me extra, her bangles clinking, bending low enough that her pallu fell forward. I caught a full view down her blouse: those massive chuchi cradled in lace, dark nipples faintly visible through the fabric. My lund twitched under my shorts.
We shared the upper floor—two rooms connected by a veranda overlooking the fields. Mausi’s room had a big double bed; mine a smaller cot. But with the heat, fans useless half the time, she insisted I sleep in her room on a mattress on the floor. “Beta, garmi mein akela mat so. Yahan araam se.”
The first few nights were torture. She’d change behind a thin curtain, the silhouette of her undressing clear in the lantern light—saree dropping, blouse unhooked, heavy breasts bouncing free as she slipped into a nightie. The fabric was old and thin, clinging to her curves, nipples poking through. She’d lie on the bed reading a magazine, one leg bent, nightie riding up to reveal smooth thighs. I’d pretend to sleep, hand under the sheet stroking my aching lund, imagining burying my face in those chuchi.
It built slowly. Mornings, she’d wake early for pooja, but I’d catch her bathing in the open courtyard bathroom—village style, a low wall, water poured from a bucket. One day, I peeked from the window: Mausi naked, soaping her body. Water cascaded over her massive breasts, nipples hard from the cool morning air, running down her soft belly to the dark patch between her legs. She rubbed soap slowly over her chuchi, lifting them, squeezing gently. My hand flew to my lund, stroking furiously as she bent to wash her legs, gaand round and inviting.
She caught me once—our eyes met through the window. She didn’t cover immediately, just smiled faintly, then turned away, wrapping a towel slowly. That afternoon, when I helped her in the kitchen, the air was charged.
“Aryan, tu mujhe aise kyun dekhta hai?” she asked softly, chopping vegetables, her pallu tucked to keep it out of the way, deep cleavage on display.
“Mausi… aap bohot sundar ho,” I stammered.
She laughed, but her cheeks flushed. “Beta, yeh galat baatein mat kar. Main teri mausi hoon.”
But that night, during a power cut, everything ignited. The room was pitch black, hot and sticky. Mausi shifted restlessly on the bed. “Aryan, neend nahi aa rahi. Baith, baatein karte hain.”
We talked—about college, my friends, her loneliness since Mausa-ji. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai zindagi ruk gayi hai,” she whispered.
I moved closer, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Mausi, aap akeli kyun rehti ho? Aap to abhi jawan ho.”
Her hand touched my arm. “Beta…”
Emboldened by darkness, I placed my hand on her thigh over the nightie. She didn’t move it away. Slowly, I slid it higher. She breathed faster.
“Aryan… yeh paap hai…”
But her legs parted slightly. My fingers found the hem, slipped under— no panty. Her chut was hot, already wet. I rubbed gently, finding her clit. She moaned softly, hand clutching my wrist—not to stop, but to guide.
“Mausi… mujhe aap chahiye,” I whispered.
She pulled me down, our lips meeting in a hungry kiss. Her tongue tasted sweet, desperate. My hands roamed—finally cupping those legendary chuchi. They overflowed my palms, soft yet firm, nipples thick and hard. I squeezed, pinched; she arched into me.
I pulled her nightie up and off. In the faint moonlight, she was a goddess—massive breasts heaving, dark nipples begging. I attacked them—sucking one hard, biting gently, mauling the other. Mausi moaned loudly now, fingers in my hair.
“Choos beta… zor se… teri mausi ki chuchi ko kha ja.”
I switched sides, leaving wet trails, red marks. My free hand delved between her legs—chut dripping, hairy but soft. Two fingers pushed in easily; she was tight but eager. I finger-fucked her steadily, thumb on clit. She came fast—body shaking, chut clenching, a gush of wetness.
Then she pushed me back, eyes wild. “Ab tu… dikha mujhe kitna bada ho gaya hai.”
She pulled my shorts down. My lund sprang free—8 inches, thick, veiny from years of fantasizing about women like her. Mausi gasped.
“Kitna mota aur lamba… Mausa-ji se bada.”
She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly. Then lowered her head—first lick along the shaft, tasting pre-cum. Her full lips engulfed the head, sucking gently. I groaned as she took more, bobbing, hand twisting at the base. Her big chuchi pressed against my thighs.
“Mausi… ahhh… achha choosti ho.”
She hummed, vibrations sending shocks. Took half, gagging slightly but persisting. I held her braid, guiding deeper. Soon I was close.
“Mausi… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, swallowing every drop as I erupted down her throat. Pulled off coughing, cum on her lips, smiling.
“Beta ka paani… kitna tasty.”
We weren’t done. I flipped her onto her back, spread her legs. Her chut glistened—pink inside, swollen. I licked—first time tasting a woman. Salty-sweet, musky. She guided me— “Cliit pe… haan… andar zubaan daal.”
I ate her hungrily until she came again, thighs clamping my head, flooding my mouth.
Then I positioned myself—lund at her entrance. “Mausi… andar daalun?”
“Haan beta… chod apni mausi ko… bana de mujhe apni randi.”
I pushed in slowly. Tight—years without sex. She winced, then relaxed. Inch by inch, buried fully. The feeling—heaven. Hot, velvety walls gripping me.
I started thrusting—slow, deep. Her massive chuchi bounced wildly. I grabbed them, squeezing as I pounded harder.
“Zor se Aryan… phaad de meri chut… kitne saal se taras rahi hoon.”
The bed creaked, her bangles jingled. I fucked like a man possessed—missionary, then lifting her legs over my shoulders for deeper angles. She came twice more, scratching my back.
Finally, I pulled out, flipped her doggy. Her gaand up, chuchi swinging below. Entered from behind, slapping her ass. Grabbed her braid like reins, pounding.
“Le mausi… bhatije ka lund…”
“Haan… chod… teri randi mausi hoon main…”
I came inside—flooding her womb, collapsing on her back.
We lay panting, my cum leaking out. She kissed me softly.
“Yeh sirf shuruaat hai, beta. Poora mahina hai.”
And it was. That month became a blur of secret passion.
Mornings: Wake to her mouth on my lund, sucking me hard before breakfast. Quick fuck in the bathroom while bathing together—soap-slick bodies, me taking her against the wall, water pouring over her bouncing chuchi.
Afternoons: When servants napped, full sessions in her room. I’d oil her breasts, tit-fuck her—my lund sliding between those massive pillows until cumming on her neck and mangalsutra. Then eat her chut until she squirted—first time for her, soaking the sheets.
Evenings: Risky—on the terrace under stars, her riding me slow, chuchi in my mouth. Or in the fields during walks, quickie behind trees, her saree lifted, fucked standing.
She taught me—how to please a woman. Positions: her on top, grinding slowly, chuchi swinging in my face. 69—her chut on my mouth, my lund down her throat.
Introduced anal—slowly, with oil. First time she cried in pain, but soon begged for it. “Gaand mein daal beta… dono hole tere hain.”
I dominated sometimes—spanking her gaand red for “teasing” with low blouses. Tying her hands with her dupatta, teasing with fingers until she begged.
She became my randi—whispering filthy things: “Aaj teri mausi ki chut mein kitna paani daalega?”
Risks: Once a cousin visited unexpectedly. We were mid-fuck—me in her ass—when knocking. She went down cum-leaking, composed, while I hid.
Another time, during village fair, we snuck to an empty shed—fucked wildly amid fireworks, her moans drowned by noise.
Her body addicted me—those chuchi always available, nipples sucked raw. Chut shaped to my lund.
Guilt fleeting: “Beta, yeh galat hai…” post-orgasm.
But always: “Par mazaa itna… ruk nahi sakte.”
I left after a month, promising return. We text secretly—nudes from her, videos of her fingering thinking of me.
That summer awakened us both. Mausi no longer lonely; I, no longer virgin.
Our taboo incest—mausi as nephew’s lover, randi, everything.
And it continues—every vacation, deeper, wilder.
The haveli holds our secrets, heat forever reminding of that first night.
Mausi Reena—my eternal fantasy made flesh.
The encounters evolved in intensity. During my next visit for Diwali, the house fuller with relatives, risks higher. We stole moments—quick blowjob in the store room while fireworks burst, her swallowing silently. Or at night, sneaking to the roof, me fucking her missionary under the moon, hand over mouth as relatives slept below.
She bought toys secretly—vibrator used while I watched, then fucked her with it in one hole, me in the other.
Roleplay: Her as strict mausi punishing “naughty” nephew with spanking, then riding him.
Or me as village goonda “forcing” her—rough, hair-pulling, until she submitted.
Her orgasms multiplied—squirting became regular, soaking everything.
Body changes: Chuchi seemed fuller from constant attention, nipples perpetually erect under blouses.
Village whispers: “Reena bhabhi kitni khush lagti hai aajkal.” If only they knew why.
We filmed—phone hidden, her riding reverse, chuchi bouncing, calling “Bhatije ka lund best.”
Watched together on visits, fucking to our porn.
Future dreams: Me settled, bring her to city as “house help,” live openly secretly.
For now, stolen heaven.
This forbidden mausi-bhatija chudai—pure fire.
No end in sight.
The depth of our bond grew beyond physical. Late nights talking—her grief over Mausa-ji, my pressures of career. Vulnerability shared in post-sex glow.
She became my confidante, lover, guide.
I sent money anonymously—helping her renovate haveli, buy nicer sarees that hugged her curves.
She dressed bolder privately—deep necks for me, transparent nighties.
Introduced food play—ghee on chuchi, licked clean.
Ice—trails down body, nipples hardening painfully.
Wax once—drips on breasts, her screams turning to moans.
Light bondage—tied to bedposts, teased for hours.
Her submission complete: “Jo bole mera bhatija, wahi karungi.”
My possession: “Teri chut, chuchi, gaand—sab mere.”
Yes.
Village life continued—festivals, routines. But underneath, our secret world.
During Holi—colors, bhang. Drunk on thandai, we danced with family, then snuck away. Smeared gulal on naked bodies, fucked color-streaked, laughing and moaning.
Rakhi—she tied rakhi, then untied, sucked me as “gift.”
Every ritual twisted erotically.
Years pass, but desire doesn’t fade.
Mausi Reena—my first, my forever.
This incestuous passion—taboo, intense, unbreakable.
And we embrace it fully.
Mausi Reena was the epitome of ripe, traditional beauty. Fair-skinned despite the harsh sun, with long black hair always braided loosely down her back, kohl-lined eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and a body that no amount of modest cotton sarees could fully conceal. Her breasts were legendary in the family whispers—massive, heavy 40DD chuchi that strained against every blouse, swaying hypnotically when she walked with the water pot balanced on her hip. Her waist was soft and inviting, flaring into wide hips and a gaand that filled her petticoats perfectly. She wore simple bindis and glass bangles that jingled softly, but there was an unspoken sensuality about her—the way her pallu slipped occasionally, revealing deep cleavage glistening with sweat, or how her full lips curved when she scolded the servants.
The haveli was large but quiet most days. Mausi managed everything herself—cooking, cleaning, tending the small courtyard garden. I arrived by bus, dusty and tired, and she greeted me at the gate with open arms. Her hug pressed those enormous breasts against my chest, soft and warm through her thin saree. I felt myself harden instantly, ashamed but unable to pull away.
“Aryan beta, kitna bada ho gaya hai tu!” she exclaimed, holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes scanned me—tall now, gym-toned from college hostels, a faint stubble on my jaw. “Ab to jawan mard lagta hai.”
I mumbled something, trying not to stare at how her blouse gaped slightly, offering a glimpse of creamy flesh and the edge of a white bra. That night, we ate dinner on the floor—simple dal, roti, sabzi. She served me extra, her bangles clinking, bending low enough that her pallu fell forward. I caught a full view down her blouse: those massive chuchi cradled in lace, dark nipples faintly visible through the fabric. My lund twitched under my shorts.
We shared the upper floor—two rooms connected by a veranda overlooking the fields. Mausi’s room had a big double bed; mine a smaller cot. But with the heat, fans useless half the time, she insisted I sleep in her room on a mattress on the floor. “Beta, garmi mein akela mat so. Yahan araam se.”
The first few nights were torture. She’d change behind a thin curtain, the silhouette of her undressing clear in the lantern light—saree dropping, blouse unhooked, heavy breasts bouncing free as she slipped into a nightie. The fabric was old and thin, clinging to her curves, nipples poking through. She’d lie on the bed reading a magazine, one leg bent, nightie riding up to reveal smooth thighs. I’d pretend to sleep, hand under the sheet stroking my aching lund, imagining burying my face in those chuchi.
It built slowly. Mornings, she’d wake early for pooja, but I’d catch her bathing in the open courtyard bathroom—village style, a low wall, water poured from a bucket. One day, I peeked from the window: Mausi naked, soaping her body. Water cascaded over her massive breasts, nipples hard from the cool morning air, running down her soft belly to the dark patch between her legs. She rubbed soap slowly over her chuchi, lifting them, squeezing gently. My hand flew to my lund, stroking furiously as she bent to wash her legs, gaand round and inviting.
She caught me once—our eyes met through the window. She didn’t cover immediately, just smiled faintly, then turned away, wrapping a towel slowly. That afternoon, when I helped her in the kitchen, the air was charged.
“Aryan, tu mujhe aise kyun dekhta hai?” she asked softly, chopping vegetables, her pallu tucked to keep it out of the way, deep cleavage on display.
“Mausi… aap bohot sundar ho,” I stammered.
She laughed, but her cheeks flushed. “Beta, yeh galat baatein mat kar. Main teri mausi hoon.”
But that night, during a power cut, everything ignited. The room was pitch black, hot and sticky. Mausi shifted restlessly on the bed. “Aryan, neend nahi aa rahi. Baith, baatein karte hain.”
We talked—about college, my friends, her loneliness since Mausa-ji. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai zindagi ruk gayi hai,” she whispered.
I moved closer, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Mausi, aap akeli kyun rehti ho? Aap to abhi jawan ho.”
Her hand touched my arm. “Beta…”
Emboldened by darkness, I placed my hand on her thigh over the nightie. She didn’t move it away. Slowly, I slid it higher. She breathed faster.
“Aryan… yeh paap hai…”
But her legs parted slightly. My fingers found the hem, slipped under— no panty. Her chut was hot, already wet. I rubbed gently, finding her clit. She moaned softly, hand clutching my wrist—not to stop, but to guide.
“Mausi… mujhe aap chahiye,” I whispered.
She pulled me down, our lips meeting in a hungry kiss. Her tongue tasted sweet, desperate. My hands roamed—finally cupping those legendary chuchi. They overflowed my palms, soft yet firm, nipples thick and hard. I squeezed, pinched; she arched into me.
I pulled her nightie up and off. In the faint moonlight, she was a goddess—massive breasts heaving, dark nipples begging. I attacked them—sucking one hard, biting gently, mauling the other. Mausi moaned loudly now, fingers in my hair.
“Choos beta… zor se… teri mausi ki chuchi ko kha ja.”
I switched sides, leaving wet trails, red marks. My free hand delved between her legs—chut dripping, hairy but soft. Two fingers pushed in easily; she was tight but eager. I finger-fucked her steadily, thumb on clit. She came fast—body shaking, chut clenching, a gush of wetness.
Then she pushed me back, eyes wild. “Ab tu… dikha mujhe kitna bada ho gaya hai.”
She pulled my shorts down. My lund sprang free—8 inches, thick, veiny from years of fantasizing about women like her. Mausi gasped.
“Kitna mota aur lamba… Mausa-ji se bada.”
She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly. Then lowered her head—first lick along the shaft, tasting pre-cum. Her full lips engulfed the head, sucking gently. I groaned as she took more, bobbing, hand twisting at the base. Her big chuchi pressed against my thighs.
“Mausi… ahhh… achha choosti ho.”
She hummed, vibrations sending shocks. Took half, gagging slightly but persisting. I held her braid, guiding deeper. Soon I was close.
“Mausi… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, swallowing every drop as I erupted down her throat. Pulled off coughing, cum on her lips, smiling.
“Beta ka paani… kitna tasty.”
We weren’t done. I flipped her onto her back, spread her legs. Her chut glistened—pink inside, swollen. I licked—first time tasting a woman. Salty-sweet, musky. She guided me— “Cliit pe… haan… andar zubaan daal.”
I ate her hungrily until she came again, thighs clamping my head, flooding my mouth.
Then I positioned myself—lund at her entrance. “Mausi… andar daalun?”
“Haan beta… chod apni mausi ko… bana de mujhe apni randi.”
I pushed in slowly. Tight—years without sex. She winced, then relaxed. Inch by inch, buried fully. The feeling—heaven. Hot, velvety walls gripping me.
I started thrusting—slow, deep. Her massive chuchi bounced wildly. I grabbed them, squeezing as I pounded harder.
“Zor se Aryan… phaad de meri chut… kitne saal se taras rahi hoon.”
The bed creaked, her bangles jingled. I fucked like a man possessed—missionary, then lifting her legs over my shoulders for deeper angles. She came twice more, scratching my back.
Finally, I pulled out, flipped her doggy. Her gaand up, chuchi swinging below. Entered from behind, slapping her ass. Grabbed her braid like reins, pounding.
“Le mausi… bhatije ka lund…”
“Haan… chod… teri randi mausi hoon main…”
I came inside—flooding her womb, collapsing on her back.
We lay panting, my cum leaking out. She kissed me softly.
“Yeh sirf shuruaat hai, beta. Poora mahina hai.”
And it was. That month became a blur of secret passion.
Mornings: Wake to her mouth on my lund, sucking me hard before breakfast. Quick fuck in the bathroom while bathing together—soap-slick bodies, me taking her against the wall, water pouring over her bouncing chuchi.
Afternoons: When servants napped, full sessions in her room. I’d oil her breasts, tit-fuck her—my lund sliding between those massive pillows until cumming on her neck and mangalsutra. Then eat her chut until she squirted—first time for her, soaking the sheets.
Evenings: Risky—on the terrace under stars, her riding me slow, chuchi in my mouth. Or in the fields during walks, quickie behind trees, her saree lifted, fucked standing.
She taught me—how to please a woman. Positions: her on top, grinding slowly, chuchi swinging in my face. 69—her chut on my mouth, my lund down her throat.
Introduced anal—slowly, with oil. First time she cried in pain, but soon begged for it. “Gaand mein daal beta… dono hole tere hain.”
I dominated sometimes—spanking her gaand red for “teasing” with low blouses. Tying her hands with her dupatta, teasing with fingers until she begged.
She became my randi—whispering filthy things: “Aaj teri mausi ki chut mein kitna paani daalega?”
Risks: Once a cousin visited unexpectedly. We were mid-fuck—me in her ass—when knocking. She went down cum-leaking, composed, while I hid.
Another time, during village fair, we snuck to an empty shed—fucked wildly amid fireworks, her moans drowned by noise.
Her body addicted me—those chuchi always available, nipples sucked raw. Chut shaped to my lund.
Guilt fleeting: “Beta, yeh galat hai…” post-orgasm.
But always: “Par mazaa itna… ruk nahi sakte.”
I left after a month, promising return. We text secretly—nudes from her, videos of her fingering thinking of me.
That summer awakened us both. Mausi no longer lonely; I, no longer virgin.
Our taboo incest—mausi as nephew’s lover, randi, everything.
And it continues—every vacation, deeper, wilder.
The haveli holds our secrets, heat forever reminding of that first night.
Mausi Reena—my eternal fantasy made flesh.
The encounters evolved in intensity. During my next visit for Diwali, the house fuller with relatives, risks higher. We stole moments—quick blowjob in the store room while fireworks burst, her swallowing silently. Or at night, sneaking to the roof, me fucking her missionary under the moon, hand over mouth as relatives slept below.
She bought toys secretly—vibrator used while I watched, then fucked her with it in one hole, me in the other.
Roleplay: Her as strict mausi punishing “naughty” nephew with spanking, then riding him.
Or me as village goonda “forcing” her—rough, hair-pulling, until she submitted.
Her orgasms multiplied—squirting became regular, soaking everything.
Body changes: Chuchi seemed fuller from constant attention, nipples perpetually erect under blouses.
Village whispers: “Reena bhabhi kitni khush lagti hai aajkal.” If only they knew why.
We filmed—phone hidden, her riding reverse, chuchi bouncing, calling “Bhatije ka lund best.”
Watched together on visits, fucking to our porn.
Future dreams: Me settled, bring her to city as “house help,” live openly secretly.
For now, stolen heaven.
This forbidden mausi-bhatija chudai—pure fire.
No end in sight.
The depth of our bond grew beyond physical. Late nights talking—her grief over Mausa-ji, my pressures of career. Vulnerability shared in post-sex glow.
She became my confidante, lover, guide.
I sent money anonymously—helping her renovate haveli, buy nicer sarees that hugged her curves.
She dressed bolder privately—deep necks for me, transparent nighties.
Introduced food play—ghee on chuchi, licked clean.
Ice—trails down body, nipples hardening painfully.
Wax once—drips on breasts, her screams turning to moans.
Light bondage—tied to bedposts, teased for hours.
Her submission complete: “Jo bole mera bhatija, wahi karungi.”
My possession: “Teri chut, chuchi, gaand—sab mere.”
Yes.
Village life continued—festivals, routines. But underneath, our secret world.
During Holi—colors, bhang. Drunk on thandai, we danced with family, then snuck away. Smeared gulal on naked bodies, fucked color-streaked, laughing and moaning.
Rakhi—she tied rakhi, then untied, sucked me as “gift.”
Every ritual twisted erotically.
Years pass, but desire doesn’t fade.
Mausi Reena—my first, my forever.
This incestuous passion—taboo, intense, unbreakable.
And we embrace it fully.