My name is Aryan. At 23, fresh out of engineering college in Bangalore and starting my first job, I was still a complete virgin—zero experience beyond guilty porn sessions and fantasies that revolved almost entirely around one woman: Natasha bhabhi, my elder brother Vikram’s wife of seven years. She was 33, a walking wet dream with cascading black hair that reached her waist, fair glowing skin, piercing green eyes from her Kashmiri roots, and a body built for sin—massive 38DD breasts that bounced hypnotically in her tight blouses, a narrow waist from daily workouts, wide hips, and an ass so plump and juicy it strained against every saree or salwar she wore. Natasha bhabhi was naturally seductive—always teasing me with innocent touches, bending over to serve me food so her deep cleavage spilled out, hugging me longer than necessary at family events, whispering double-meaning jokes that made my cock throb. I’d lost count of how many loads I’d shot imagining her husky voice moaning my name while those full, painted lips wrapped around my dick.
This summer, the family escaped Bangalore’s heat for a week in Ooty—pine forests, misty lakes, strawberry fields, the whole hill station charm. Vikram bhaiya, Natasha bhabhi, Mom-Dad, my aunt-uncle, and me. We booked a heritage resort with colonial cottages. But when we arrived, unseasonal heavy rains had flooded roads, canceled bookings, and caused chaos—only one premium suite available in the main building: a spacious room with a four-poster king bed, stone fireplace, bay windows overlooking foggy pines, and a large attached bathroom with a claw-foot tub and rain shower.
Parents and aunt-uncle took the bigger family suite. Bhaiya was fine with it—he trusted us blindly and had work emails anyway. “Natasha, Aryan ke saath adjust kar lo. He’s still a kid.” Bhabhi gave me that slow, knowing smile, her eyes raking over me. “Haan ji, main apne nanhe devar ka bilkul khayal rakhungi… poora poora.”
My dick stirred just from her tone. Did she suspect I wasn’t so “nanha” everywhere?
The suite was pure seduction—warm wooden paneling, soft lighting, the bed piled with plush quilts and pillows, constant rain drumming on the slate roof like a heartbeat. First afternoon, we settled in while family napped off travel fatigue. Bhabhi changed in the bathroom and emerged in a thin white kurti and leggings—the fabric clinging to her curves from residual dampness, nipples poking through, leggings hugging her thick thighs and ass like a second skin. No bra, obviously. She caught me staring and smirked, bending to unpack so her heavy boobs hung low, cleavage on full display.
“Devar ji, nazar kahan hai?” she teased, voice low and playful.
I stammered, face burning. “Kuch nahi bhabhi…”
She laughed softly, sitting on the bed edge, patting the space beside her. “Aao baitho. Barish mein bore ho jaoge akela.”
We talked—about my new job, her boredom managing home while bhaiya traveled. Rain intensified, trapping us. Evening family dinner postponed; room service brought soup and sandwiches. After eating by the fireplace, family retired early. We were alone.
Night fell, fog thick outside, fire crackling. Bhabhi changed again—this time a short silk nightie, red, barely mid-thigh, low neckline showing endless cleavage, nipples hard from the hill chill. She climbed into bed casually, as if sharing with her virgin devar was normal. I wore boxers and vest, trying to hide my raging hard-on.
We lay on opposite sides, firelight dancing on walls. Sleep impossible with her scent—jasmine and musk—filling the room.
After what felt like hours, she whispered huskily, “Aryan baby, neend nahi aa rahi? Barish ki awaaz sun ke excited ho gaya kya?”
“Nahi bhabhi… thand lag rahi hai bas.”
She giggled low, scooting closer, one smooth leg sliding over mine, her bare thigh pressing my erection. She froze playfully, then ground slightly. “Arre… yeh kya hai itna hard? Tera lund toh bilkul paththar jaisa ho gaya hai mere devar ka.”
I groaned, embarrassed and aching. “Bhabhi… sorry… please…”
“Shh… sorry kyun? Natural hai na?” Her hand drifted down, cupping my bulge boldly through boxers. “Waah… kitna bada feel ho raha hai. Teri bhabhi ko bata… kitna lamba hai yeh mota lund? 8 inch? 9?”
Her fingers squeezed, stroking slowly. I was leaking pre-cum already.
“Bhabhi… yeh galat hai… bhaiya…”
“Galat kya Aryan?” she purred, climbing to straddle my waist, nightie riding up—no panties, her hot, wet pussy lips rubbing my stomach. “Yahan sirf hum dono hain. Tera bhaiya ko kabhi pata nahi chalega. Bata na sach… kitni baar meri cleavage dekh ke, meri bra churake muth maara hai tune? Terrace pe mujhe nahate dekhne ki koshish karta tha na chhup ke?”
I nodded, ashamed, cock throbbing harder. She knew everything.
She yanked my boxers down roughly. My cock sprang free—8.5 inches, thick as her wrist, veiny and angry red. Her eyes went wide with lust. “Arre waah devar ji… Vikram se kahin bada aur mota. Yeh toh meri tight chut phaad ke rakh dega… kitna garam hai tera lund… pre-cum beh raha hai.”
She stroked firmly, thumb smearing the head. “Taste karun apne virgin devar ka ras? Kitna tasty hoga…”
Before I could answer, she slid down and engulfed me—hot, wet mouth taking half in one go, tongue swirling wildly, cheeks hollowing as she sucked hard. Sloppy sounds filled the room, saliva dripping down my shaft. “Mmm… devar ka lund… kitna mota… pura muh bhar diya… choosungi zor zor se…”
I lasted barely a minute. “Bhabhi… nikalne wala hai…”
She deep-throated fully, nose to my pubes. “Mere muh mein daal de saara… teri bhabhi pee jaayegi tera garam ras… de na pura… har boond!”
I exploded—thick, hot ropes shooting down her throat. She swallowed greedily, moaning loudly, eyes rolling back, then licked every drop clean, popping off with a wet smack.
“Now my turn, baby,” she purred, climbing up to straddle my face, nightie hiked. Her pussy was perfectly waxed, puffy pink lips glistening with juices, clit swollen. “Chat apni bhabhi ki geeli chut… zor se choos mera ras… tongue se chod mujhe…”
I attacked hungrily—long licks from her tight asshole to clit, sucking her nub hard, tongue thrusting deep inside her dripping hole. She ground down brutally, boobs bouncing. “Haan Aryan… wahi… apni jeebh andar daal aur pel… ahh fuck… kitna acha choosta hai tu meri chut ko… zor zor se… aa rahi hun… pi le saara ras mera!”
She flooded my mouth—sweet-salty nectar gushing as she came, thighs quaking, muffling screams in a pillow.
My cock was steel again. She sank down on it slowly—scorching tight heat stretching around every inch. “Oh shit… kitna mota hai tera lund… meri chut faad raha hai… pura andar le liya tune… ahh devar… ab thok mujhe jaise randi ko thokte hain!”
I grabbed her hips, pounded up. She rode like a goddess—boobs bouncing wildly, ass slapping my thighs. “Haan… zor se pel apni bhabhi ko… bana de mujhe apni personal randi… meri chut phaad de mota lund se!”
We fucked like animals—her nails digging my chest, my hands mauling her ass red. She leaned down, biting my ear. “Kitne saal se meri chut marne ke sapne dekhta tha na? Ab maar… roz thokunga tujhe… bhar de mujhe apne ras se!”
“Andar daalun bhabhi?” I gasped, close.
“Haan creampie de… bhar de meri bachchedani apne garam virye se… feel karna chahti hun tera ras andar shoot hote hue!”
I erupted deep—endless pulses filling her. She came again, pussy spasming, milking me dry. “Haan… kitna garam… bhar gaya tune meri chut… leak ho raha hai tera ras!”
That was just the beginning. We fucked four times that first night—missionary with legs over shoulders, doggy against the window with rain outside, her riding reverse so I watched her ass bounce, and a final slow spoon where I creampied her again while whispering filth.
The week was a blur of family days and secret nights. Mornings: wake-up blowjobs under quilts—“Subah subah tera lund muh mein leke khada kar deti hun… ab thok mera gala zor se!” Afternoons: family lake boating or botanical gardens; we sneaked quickies in the cottage—“Jaldi daal devar… family wapas aane wala hai… chut mein pel zor se!” Evenings: campfire stories; later anal in the tub—“Phad di tune meri gaand… kitna mota lund… roz gaand mar apni bhabhi ki!”
Between rounds, raw emotions. She confessed sex with bhaiya was vanilla, infrequent. “Tu mujhe aisa feel karata hai jaise main sex goddess hun… wild, desired.” I admitted lifelong obsession—stealing her used panties, fantasizing her pregnant with my child.
One stormy night, candles only, she edged me mercilessly—sucking, stopping. “Bol… main teri kiski hun?”
“Teri bhabhi ki geeli chut, tight gaand, bade boobs—sab mere hain… roz chodunga tujhe jaise kutiya!”
Only then she let me ravage her senseless.
Trip ended, but our fire didn’t. Back Bangalore, bhaiya travels constantly. I “study” at their place—really marathon fucks. Kitchen quickies—“Bent over ho ja randi bhabhi… nightie up, chut mein daal raha hun!” Marital bed when alone—“Yahan thok mujhe jahan tera bhaiya sota hai… uski biwi ko creampie de bar bar!”
During family weddings, bathroom blowjobs—her swallowing so no mess.
Ten months now. She’s addicted—“Tera mota lund ne bigaad diya mujhe… ab Vikram ka chhota sa kuch feel nahi hota.” I’m obsessed, confident, completely hers.
This summer, the family escaped Bangalore’s heat for a week in Ooty—pine forests, misty lakes, strawberry fields, the whole hill station charm. Vikram bhaiya, Natasha bhabhi, Mom-Dad, my aunt-uncle, and me. We booked a heritage resort with colonial cottages. But when we arrived, unseasonal heavy rains had flooded roads, canceled bookings, and caused chaos—only one premium suite available in the main building: a spacious room with a four-poster king bed, stone fireplace, bay windows overlooking foggy pines, and a large attached bathroom with a claw-foot tub and rain shower.
Parents and aunt-uncle took the bigger family suite. Bhaiya was fine with it—he trusted us blindly and had work emails anyway. “Natasha, Aryan ke saath adjust kar lo. He’s still a kid.” Bhabhi gave me that slow, knowing smile, her eyes raking over me. “Haan ji, main apne nanhe devar ka bilkul khayal rakhungi… poora poora.”
My dick stirred just from her tone. Did she suspect I wasn’t so “nanha” everywhere?
The suite was pure seduction—warm wooden paneling, soft lighting, the bed piled with plush quilts and pillows, constant rain drumming on the slate roof like a heartbeat. First afternoon, we settled in while family napped off travel fatigue. Bhabhi changed in the bathroom and emerged in a thin white kurti and leggings—the fabric clinging to her curves from residual dampness, nipples poking through, leggings hugging her thick thighs and ass like a second skin. No bra, obviously. She caught me staring and smirked, bending to unpack so her heavy boobs hung low, cleavage on full display.
“Devar ji, nazar kahan hai?” she teased, voice low and playful.
I stammered, face burning. “Kuch nahi bhabhi…”
She laughed softly, sitting on the bed edge, patting the space beside her. “Aao baitho. Barish mein bore ho jaoge akela.”
We talked—about my new job, her boredom managing home while bhaiya traveled. Rain intensified, trapping us. Evening family dinner postponed; room service brought soup and sandwiches. After eating by the fireplace, family retired early. We were alone.
Night fell, fog thick outside, fire crackling. Bhabhi changed again—this time a short silk nightie, red, barely mid-thigh, low neckline showing endless cleavage, nipples hard from the hill chill. She climbed into bed casually, as if sharing with her virgin devar was normal. I wore boxers and vest, trying to hide my raging hard-on.
We lay on opposite sides, firelight dancing on walls. Sleep impossible with her scent—jasmine and musk—filling the room.
After what felt like hours, she whispered huskily, “Aryan baby, neend nahi aa rahi? Barish ki awaaz sun ke excited ho gaya kya?”
“Nahi bhabhi… thand lag rahi hai bas.”
She giggled low, scooting closer, one smooth leg sliding over mine, her bare thigh pressing my erection. She froze playfully, then ground slightly. “Arre… yeh kya hai itna hard? Tera lund toh bilkul paththar jaisa ho gaya hai mere devar ka.”
I groaned, embarrassed and aching. “Bhabhi… sorry… please…”
“Shh… sorry kyun? Natural hai na?” Her hand drifted down, cupping my bulge boldly through boxers. “Waah… kitna bada feel ho raha hai. Teri bhabhi ko bata… kitna lamba hai yeh mota lund? 8 inch? 9?”
Her fingers squeezed, stroking slowly. I was leaking pre-cum already.
“Bhabhi… yeh galat hai… bhaiya…”
“Galat kya Aryan?” she purred, climbing to straddle my waist, nightie riding up—no panties, her hot, wet pussy lips rubbing my stomach. “Yahan sirf hum dono hain. Tera bhaiya ko kabhi pata nahi chalega. Bata na sach… kitni baar meri cleavage dekh ke, meri bra churake muth maara hai tune? Terrace pe mujhe nahate dekhne ki koshish karta tha na chhup ke?”
I nodded, ashamed, cock throbbing harder. She knew everything.
She yanked my boxers down roughly. My cock sprang free—8.5 inches, thick as her wrist, veiny and angry red. Her eyes went wide with lust. “Arre waah devar ji… Vikram se kahin bada aur mota. Yeh toh meri tight chut phaad ke rakh dega… kitna garam hai tera lund… pre-cum beh raha hai.”
She stroked firmly, thumb smearing the head. “Taste karun apne virgin devar ka ras? Kitna tasty hoga…”
Before I could answer, she slid down and engulfed me—hot, wet mouth taking half in one go, tongue swirling wildly, cheeks hollowing as she sucked hard. Sloppy sounds filled the room, saliva dripping down my shaft. “Mmm… devar ka lund… kitna mota… pura muh bhar diya… choosungi zor zor se…”
I lasted barely a minute. “Bhabhi… nikalne wala hai…”
She deep-throated fully, nose to my pubes. “Mere muh mein daal de saara… teri bhabhi pee jaayegi tera garam ras… de na pura… har boond!”
I exploded—thick, hot ropes shooting down her throat. She swallowed greedily, moaning loudly, eyes rolling back, then licked every drop clean, popping off with a wet smack.
“Now my turn, baby,” she purred, climbing up to straddle my face, nightie hiked. Her pussy was perfectly waxed, puffy pink lips glistening with juices, clit swollen. “Chat apni bhabhi ki geeli chut… zor se choos mera ras… tongue se chod mujhe…”
I attacked hungrily—long licks from her tight asshole to clit, sucking her nub hard, tongue thrusting deep inside her dripping hole. She ground down brutally, boobs bouncing. “Haan Aryan… wahi… apni jeebh andar daal aur pel… ahh fuck… kitna acha choosta hai tu meri chut ko… zor zor se… aa rahi hun… pi le saara ras mera!”
She flooded my mouth—sweet-salty nectar gushing as she came, thighs quaking, muffling screams in a pillow.
My cock was steel again. She sank down on it slowly—scorching tight heat stretching around every inch. “Oh shit… kitna mota hai tera lund… meri chut faad raha hai… pura andar le liya tune… ahh devar… ab thok mujhe jaise randi ko thokte hain!”
I grabbed her hips, pounded up. She rode like a goddess—boobs bouncing wildly, ass slapping my thighs. “Haan… zor se pel apni bhabhi ko… bana de mujhe apni personal randi… meri chut phaad de mota lund se!”
We fucked like animals—her nails digging my chest, my hands mauling her ass red. She leaned down, biting my ear. “Kitne saal se meri chut marne ke sapne dekhta tha na? Ab maar… roz thokunga tujhe… bhar de mujhe apne ras se!”
“Andar daalun bhabhi?” I gasped, close.
“Haan creampie de… bhar de meri bachchedani apne garam virye se… feel karna chahti hun tera ras andar shoot hote hue!”
I erupted deep—endless pulses filling her. She came again, pussy spasming, milking me dry. “Haan… kitna garam… bhar gaya tune meri chut… leak ho raha hai tera ras!”
That was just the beginning. We fucked four times that first night—missionary with legs over shoulders, doggy against the window with rain outside, her riding reverse so I watched her ass bounce, and a final slow spoon where I creampied her again while whispering filth.
The week was a blur of family days and secret nights. Mornings: wake-up blowjobs under quilts—“Subah subah tera lund muh mein leke khada kar deti hun… ab thok mera gala zor se!” Afternoons: family lake boating or botanical gardens; we sneaked quickies in the cottage—“Jaldi daal devar… family wapas aane wala hai… chut mein pel zor se!” Evenings: campfire stories; later anal in the tub—“Phad di tune meri gaand… kitna mota lund… roz gaand mar apni bhabhi ki!”
Between rounds, raw emotions. She confessed sex with bhaiya was vanilla, infrequent. “Tu mujhe aisa feel karata hai jaise main sex goddess hun… wild, desired.” I admitted lifelong obsession—stealing her used panties, fantasizing her pregnant with my child.
One stormy night, candles only, she edged me mercilessly—sucking, stopping. “Bol… main teri kiski hun?”
“Teri bhabhi ki geeli chut, tight gaand, bade boobs—sab mere hain… roz chodunga tujhe jaise kutiya!”
Only then she let me ravage her senseless.
Trip ended, but our fire didn’t. Back Bangalore, bhaiya travels constantly. I “study” at their place—really marathon fucks. Kitchen quickies—“Bent over ho ja randi bhabhi… nightie up, chut mein daal raha hun!” Marital bed when alone—“Yahan thok mujhe jahan tera bhaiya sota hai… uski biwi ko creampie de bar bar!”
During family weddings, bathroom blowjobs—her swallowing so no mess.
Ten months now. She’s addicted—“Tera mota lund ne bigaad diya mujhe… ab Vikram ka chhota sa kuch feel nahi hota.” I’m obsessed, confident, completely hers.