My name is Kabir, and at 28, I thought my life was perfectly settled—a stable job as a senior software developer in a reputed IT company in Hinjewadi, Pune, a comfortable 2BHK flat in Wakad, and a loving arranged marriage to my wife Priya for three years. We had no kids yet, both focused on careers—Priya as a marketing manager with frequent travel. Our marriage was good: comfortable intimacy, shared laughs, weekend outings to Koregaon Park cafes. But nothing prepared me for the storm that hit when Priya's younger sister, Riya, came to stay with us for an extended visit.
Riya was 24, freshly graduated with an MBA from Delhi, job-hunting in Pune for better opportunities. Priya insisted: "Di, she's family. Let her stay till she finds a PG or flat. Only a month or two." I agreed—how could I say no? Riya arrived in July, monsoon season, with two suitcases and that infectious smile.
Riya was the wilder, bolder version of Priya—5'6" tall, with flawless fair skin that glowed like fresh cream, long wavy black hair often left open or in a high ponytail, and sharp, playful features: pouty full lips always glossed pink, large hazel eyes lined with mascara that gave her a seductive gaze, and a cute nose stud. Her body was a lethal combination of youth and curves: 36D-26-40. Firm, perky breasts that bounced subtly under tight tops, a tiny waist with a navel piercing visible in crop tops, wide hips flaring into thick thighs, and an ass so round, juicy, and perfectly shaped it strained against jeans or leggings, jiggling with every step. She dressed modern—short dresses, tank tops with deep necks, yoga pants at home showing camel toe, or traditional salwar suits with dupatta loosely draped for family. Her voice was teasing, with a Delhi accent, laughter bubbly, and she smelled of vanilla body mist and mischief.
At first, everything seemed normal. Riya slept in the guest room, helped with chores, job interviews during day. Evenings: We three watched Netflix, ate Maggi or ordered from Swiggy. But Priya's travel started immediately—week-long trip to Bangalore for a client meet, leaving Riya and me alone.
That's when the sparks flew. First night alone: Riya in a short pink nightdress, thigh-length, neckline low, no bra—nipples poking faintly. "Jiju, bhabhi nahi hai, bored hoon. Movie dekhein?" We sat on couch, some rom-com. She sat close, legs crossed, thigh touching mine. Halfway, she rested head on my shoulder. "Jiju, aap bahut caring ho. Bhabhi lucky hai."
I smiled, but her hand on my thigh, scent intoxicating. My cock stirred. She noticed, giggling softly. "Jiju... yeh kya?"
Awkward laugh. "Riya... tu bhi bahut beautiful hai."
Eyes locked. She leaned, kissed cheek—lingering. "Thank you jiju." But didn't move.
Next days: Teasing escalated. Mornings: She'd "accidentally" walk from bathroom to room in towel, door ajar, showing sideboob or ass. Kitchen: Bending for utensils, nightdress riding, panty visible. Yoga in living room—leggings tight, downward dog ass towards me, camel toe outlined.
I'd work from home sometimes, hard concentrating. She'd bring coffee, bending low, cleavage deep.
Priya called daily—oblivious.
Turning point: Weekend, heavy rain. Power cut evening. Candles lit, we played cards. Riya in tank top and shorts—boobs straining, shorts riding ass cheeks. Lost game, dare: Massage her shoulders.
Hands on soft skin—oiled later. Moaned exaggeratedly. "Jiju... lower jaao... haan back pe."
Turned her, kissed—explosive. Tongues battled, her grinding lap.
Pulled to bedroom—Priya's bed, risky thrill.
Strip slow—tank off, lace bra. Unclasped—boobs free: 36D perky, pink nipples erect.
Sucked—sweet young taste.
Oral—her blowing expertly.
Missionary deep.
Doggy ass jiggle.
Cowgirl bounce.
Multiple.
Ongoing: Daily risks—shower together, kitchen quickies, balcony nights.
Priya back—stolen moments.
Emotional: Her crush confession, my guilt-lust.
Affair continued.
Riya's body, boldness—addictive peak.
Riya was 24, freshly graduated with an MBA from Delhi, job-hunting in Pune for better opportunities. Priya insisted: "Di, she's family. Let her stay till she finds a PG or flat. Only a month or two." I agreed—how could I say no? Riya arrived in July, monsoon season, with two suitcases and that infectious smile.
Riya was the wilder, bolder version of Priya—5'6" tall, with flawless fair skin that glowed like fresh cream, long wavy black hair often left open or in a high ponytail, and sharp, playful features: pouty full lips always glossed pink, large hazel eyes lined with mascara that gave her a seductive gaze, and a cute nose stud. Her body was a lethal combination of youth and curves: 36D-26-40. Firm, perky breasts that bounced subtly under tight tops, a tiny waist with a navel piercing visible in crop tops, wide hips flaring into thick thighs, and an ass so round, juicy, and perfectly shaped it strained against jeans or leggings, jiggling with every step. She dressed modern—short dresses, tank tops with deep necks, yoga pants at home showing camel toe, or traditional salwar suits with dupatta loosely draped for family. Her voice was teasing, with a Delhi accent, laughter bubbly, and she smelled of vanilla body mist and mischief.
At first, everything seemed normal. Riya slept in the guest room, helped with chores, job interviews during day. Evenings: We three watched Netflix, ate Maggi or ordered from Swiggy. But Priya's travel started immediately—week-long trip to Bangalore for a client meet, leaving Riya and me alone.
That's when the sparks flew. First night alone: Riya in a short pink nightdress, thigh-length, neckline low, no bra—nipples poking faintly. "Jiju, bhabhi nahi hai, bored hoon. Movie dekhein?" We sat on couch, some rom-com. She sat close, legs crossed, thigh touching mine. Halfway, she rested head on my shoulder. "Jiju, aap bahut caring ho. Bhabhi lucky hai."
I smiled, but her hand on my thigh, scent intoxicating. My cock stirred. She noticed, giggling softly. "Jiju... yeh kya?"
Awkward laugh. "Riya... tu bhi bahut beautiful hai."
Eyes locked. She leaned, kissed cheek—lingering. "Thank you jiju." But didn't move.
Next days: Teasing escalated. Mornings: She'd "accidentally" walk from bathroom to room in towel, door ajar, showing sideboob or ass. Kitchen: Bending for utensils, nightdress riding, panty visible. Yoga in living room—leggings tight, downward dog ass towards me, camel toe outlined.
I'd work from home sometimes, hard concentrating. She'd bring coffee, bending low, cleavage deep.
Priya called daily—oblivious.
Turning point: Weekend, heavy rain. Power cut evening. Candles lit, we played cards. Riya in tank top and shorts—boobs straining, shorts riding ass cheeks. Lost game, dare: Massage her shoulders.
Hands on soft skin—oiled later. Moaned exaggeratedly. "Jiju... lower jaao... haan back pe."
Turned her, kissed—explosive. Tongues battled, her grinding lap.
Pulled to bedroom—Priya's bed, risky thrill.
Strip slow—tank off, lace bra. Unclasped—boobs free: 36D perky, pink nipples erect.
Sucked—sweet young taste.
Oral—her blowing expertly.
Missionary deep.
Doggy ass jiggle.
Cowgirl bounce.
Multiple.
Ongoing: Daily risks—shower together, kitchen quickies, balcony nights.
Priya back—stolen moments.
Emotional: Her crush confession, my guilt-lust.
Affair continued.
Riya's body, boldness—addictive peak.