My name is Raj Malhotra, 30 years old, a successful real estate developer living the good life in a sprawling three-storey bungalow in South Delhi's elite Vasant Vihar neighborhood. The house had everything—marble floors that stayed cool in summer, a private swimming pool in the backyard surrounded by manicured lawns, a home theater in the basement, a fully equipped gym, and six bedrooms upstairs. I'd built it all from scratch after years of hustling in property deals. Married to Priya for four years, a 28-year-old fashion buyer for a high-end brand, our life was comfortable but increasingly distant. Her job meant constant travel—Milan fashion weeks, Paris sourcing trips, sometimes a month away at a stretch. The bed felt empty, the house too quiet.
That's when Pooja came into the picture. Priya's younger sister, 23, had just finished her master's in design from NIFT and broken up with a long-term boyfriend who "couldn't commit." "Jiju, didi toh abroad hai... main thodi der reh lun? Job hunt kar lungi Delhi se," she pleaded over a family call. Priya encouraged it—"She'll keep you company, Raj. House bada hai, akela mat reh." I agreed, not realizing how dangerously close we'd get.
Pooja arrived one sweltering June afternoon—vibrant as ever, dragging designer suitcases, long wavy black hair loose, wearing a crop top that showed her pierced navel and high-waisted jeans hugging her curves. She was the family firecracker: mischievous hazel eyes that sparkled with trouble, a constant naughty half-smile, full lips glossed pink, and a body that turned heads everywhere—full 36C breasts that bounced with her energetic walk, a toned waist from Pilates classes, wide hips swaying naturally, and a perky heart-shaped ass that looked incredible in anything tight. "Jiju!" she squealed, hugging me tightly at the door, her soft boobs pressing firmly against my chest, perfume sweet and intoxicating. I felt an immediate stir but played it cool.
The first few days were innocent enough. Pooja settled into a guest room upstairs, job-hunting on her laptop while I worked from home office. Mornings: she'd join me for pool swims to beat the heat—she in skimpy two-piece bikinis that left little to imagination, strings barely holding her assets. "Jiju, race karo na!" she'd challenge, diving in gracefully, water glistening on her curves as she surfaced, nipples poking through wet fabric when climbing out. I'd apply sunscreen on her request—"Back pe laga do, burn ho jayegi"—hands gliding over smooth skin, fingers "accidentally" brushing the sides of her breasts or the curve of her ass. "Mmm... jiju, your hands are so strong," she'd moan playfully, arching slightly, glancing back with that teasing smile.
Afternoons: lounging in the home theater for movies—she'd pick rom-coms or thrillers with steamy scenes, curling up on the massive couch beside me, head on my shoulder, leg draped over mine "for comfort." Her hand would rest high on my thigh during intense moments, fingers tracing lazy circles. Evenings: experimenting in the kitchen—she in an apron over a crop top and shorts, bending to check the oven, ass presented perfectly. "Jiju, taste karo," feeding me bites, lips brushing my fingers. Teasing was constant—"Jiju, didi lucky hai... aap itne fit aur handsome ho. Gym mein sab ladkiyan line marti hongi na?" I'd retort, "Tu bhi kam nahi hai, saali... dangerous hai tu, koi ladka sambhal nahi payega."
Priya's month-long Europe trip sealed it. First night alone: I cooked steak, opened wine, sat on the terrace overlooking city lights. Talks flowed deep—her painful breakup ("He was boring in bed too"), my admission of marital routine cooling off ("Priya busy rehti hai... closeness miss karta hoon"). Wine loosened tongues; she scooted closer. "Jiju, hug toh banta hai na." The hug started comforting—her body melting into mine, heavy breasts crushing my chest—but lingered, breaths syncing. She looked up, eyes vulnerable yet hungry. "Jiju... ek kiss?" Our lips met—soft, testing, then exploding into raw passion, tongues battling as hands roamed frantically.
We stumbled to the master bedroom—Priya's and mine. I pushed her against the door, kissing down her neck while yanking off her crop top. No bra—those perfect tits spilled free, pink nipples erect. Cupped them greedily, thumbs circling before sucking one hard, tongue flicking, biting gently. "Ahhh... jiju... chooso zor se... saali ke boobs dabaao," she moaned, fingers tangling my hair, arching her back to push them deeper into my mouth.
She dropped my shorts, gasping at my thick 7.5-inch cock. "Jiju ka lund... didi ke liye itna bada?" Wrapped soft hands, stroking firmly before kneeling—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling pre-cum, deepthroating with wet gags, eyes locked on mine teasingly. Saliva dripped as she bobbed, hand pumping base.
I pulled her up, stripping shorts—no panties, shaved pussy glistening. Laid her on the king bed, spreading legs to eat her hungrily—long licks along slit, sucking clit, fingers pumping her tight heat. "Jiju... ahhh... kha jao saali ki choot... zor se!" She came hard, thighs clamping my head, juices flooding my tongue, body shaking.
Positioned at her entrance, rubbing cock along wet lips. "Dalun andar, Pooja? Teri didi ki behen ko chodun?" She begged, "Haan jiju... chod apni saali ko... phaad do mujhe!" Pushed in slowly—velvet grip, hot and slick. Thrust building—deep strokes, her tits bouncing wildly, nails raking my back. "Zor se thok jiju... haan aise!"
Switched—cowgirl: she rode grinding clit, ass slapping thighs, leaning for me to suck tits; doggy: gripping hips, spanking ass red as it jiggled, pulling hair; missionary: legs over shoulders, deep pounding with eye contact. She came thrice, pussy clenching. "Andar daal jiju... creampie kar saali ke andar... pregnant kar do!" Flooded her depths with hot ropes.
Guilt flickered post-orgasm, but she cuddled, "Yeh hamara secret... didi ko kabhi nahi pata chalega." The bungalow became our playground. Mornings: pool underwater oral—her sucking me floating, bubbles rising. Afternoons: gym quickies—she bent over weights, fucked from behind. Evenings: terrace under stars—slow sensual sex, whispering fantasies. Basement theater: tied her lightly with scarves for teasing edging, then wild release. Experiments—anal after gentle prep and lube (she screamed pleasure-pain, addicted), role-play as boss-intern, toys from online orders (vibrator on clit while pounding).
Emotional layers deepened—she healed from breakup feeling truly desired, I rediscovered passion missing in marriage. Stolen moments when Priya called—Pooja riding me silently, smirking. Priya returned; Pooja "extended" stay for "job." Secrets in hidden corners—laundry room quickies, car garage. Our surrender raw, ongoing—saali became my secret obsession.
That's when Pooja came into the picture. Priya's younger sister, 23, had just finished her master's in design from NIFT and broken up with a long-term boyfriend who "couldn't commit." "Jiju, didi toh abroad hai... main thodi der reh lun? Job hunt kar lungi Delhi se," she pleaded over a family call. Priya encouraged it—"She'll keep you company, Raj. House bada hai, akela mat reh." I agreed, not realizing how dangerously close we'd get.
Pooja arrived one sweltering June afternoon—vibrant as ever, dragging designer suitcases, long wavy black hair loose, wearing a crop top that showed her pierced navel and high-waisted jeans hugging her curves. She was the family firecracker: mischievous hazel eyes that sparkled with trouble, a constant naughty half-smile, full lips glossed pink, and a body that turned heads everywhere—full 36C breasts that bounced with her energetic walk, a toned waist from Pilates classes, wide hips swaying naturally, and a perky heart-shaped ass that looked incredible in anything tight. "Jiju!" she squealed, hugging me tightly at the door, her soft boobs pressing firmly against my chest, perfume sweet and intoxicating. I felt an immediate stir but played it cool.
The first few days were innocent enough. Pooja settled into a guest room upstairs, job-hunting on her laptop while I worked from home office. Mornings: she'd join me for pool swims to beat the heat—she in skimpy two-piece bikinis that left little to imagination, strings barely holding her assets. "Jiju, race karo na!" she'd challenge, diving in gracefully, water glistening on her curves as she surfaced, nipples poking through wet fabric when climbing out. I'd apply sunscreen on her request—"Back pe laga do, burn ho jayegi"—hands gliding over smooth skin, fingers "accidentally" brushing the sides of her breasts or the curve of her ass. "Mmm... jiju, your hands are so strong," she'd moan playfully, arching slightly, glancing back with that teasing smile.
Afternoons: lounging in the home theater for movies—she'd pick rom-coms or thrillers with steamy scenes, curling up on the massive couch beside me, head on my shoulder, leg draped over mine "for comfort." Her hand would rest high on my thigh during intense moments, fingers tracing lazy circles. Evenings: experimenting in the kitchen—she in an apron over a crop top and shorts, bending to check the oven, ass presented perfectly. "Jiju, taste karo," feeding me bites, lips brushing my fingers. Teasing was constant—"Jiju, didi lucky hai... aap itne fit aur handsome ho. Gym mein sab ladkiyan line marti hongi na?" I'd retort, "Tu bhi kam nahi hai, saali... dangerous hai tu, koi ladka sambhal nahi payega."
Priya's month-long Europe trip sealed it. First night alone: I cooked steak, opened wine, sat on the terrace overlooking city lights. Talks flowed deep—her painful breakup ("He was boring in bed too"), my admission of marital routine cooling off ("Priya busy rehti hai... closeness miss karta hoon"). Wine loosened tongues; she scooted closer. "Jiju, hug toh banta hai na." The hug started comforting—her body melting into mine, heavy breasts crushing my chest—but lingered, breaths syncing. She looked up, eyes vulnerable yet hungry. "Jiju... ek kiss?" Our lips met—soft, testing, then exploding into raw passion, tongues battling as hands roamed frantically.
We stumbled to the master bedroom—Priya's and mine. I pushed her against the door, kissing down her neck while yanking off her crop top. No bra—those perfect tits spilled free, pink nipples erect. Cupped them greedily, thumbs circling before sucking one hard, tongue flicking, biting gently. "Ahhh... jiju... chooso zor se... saali ke boobs dabaao," she moaned, fingers tangling my hair, arching her back to push them deeper into my mouth.
She dropped my shorts, gasping at my thick 7.5-inch cock. "Jiju ka lund... didi ke liye itna bada?" Wrapped soft hands, stroking firmly before kneeling—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling pre-cum, deepthroating with wet gags, eyes locked on mine teasingly. Saliva dripped as she bobbed, hand pumping base.
I pulled her up, stripping shorts—no panties, shaved pussy glistening. Laid her on the king bed, spreading legs to eat her hungrily—long licks along slit, sucking clit, fingers pumping her tight heat. "Jiju... ahhh... kha jao saali ki choot... zor se!" She came hard, thighs clamping my head, juices flooding my tongue, body shaking.
Positioned at her entrance, rubbing cock along wet lips. "Dalun andar, Pooja? Teri didi ki behen ko chodun?" She begged, "Haan jiju... chod apni saali ko... phaad do mujhe!" Pushed in slowly—velvet grip, hot and slick. Thrust building—deep strokes, her tits bouncing wildly, nails raking my back. "Zor se thok jiju... haan aise!"
Switched—cowgirl: she rode grinding clit, ass slapping thighs, leaning for me to suck tits; doggy: gripping hips, spanking ass red as it jiggled, pulling hair; missionary: legs over shoulders, deep pounding with eye contact. She came thrice, pussy clenching. "Andar daal jiju... creampie kar saali ke andar... pregnant kar do!" Flooded her depths with hot ropes.
Guilt flickered post-orgasm, but she cuddled, "Yeh hamara secret... didi ko kabhi nahi pata chalega." The bungalow became our playground. Mornings: pool underwater oral—her sucking me floating, bubbles rising. Afternoons: gym quickies—she bent over weights, fucked from behind. Evenings: terrace under stars—slow sensual sex, whispering fantasies. Basement theater: tied her lightly with scarves for teasing edging, then wild release. Experiments—anal after gentle prep and lube (she screamed pleasure-pain, addicted), role-play as boss-intern, toys from online orders (vibrator on clit while pounding).
Emotional layers deepened—she healed from breakup feeling truly desired, I rediscovered passion missing in marriage. Stolen moments when Priya called—Pooja riding me silently, smirking. Priya returned; Pooja "extended" stay for "job." Secrets in hidden corners—laundry room quickies, car garage. Our surrender raw, ongoing—saali became my secret obsession.