My name is Ananya. Twenty-three years old, just married three days ago into one of the most respected old Brahmin families of Assi Ghat in Varanasi. The house is a four-storey ancient haveli right on the banks of Mother Ganga – stone steps leading down to the river, constant sound of temple bells, conch shells at dawn, and the faint smell of incense and gangajal always lingering in the corridors. My husband, Vikram, is kind, handsome, works as a lecturer in BHU, but… he is gentle. Too gentle. On our suhaagraat he lasted barely five minutes, whispered “sorry jaan” and fell asleep snoring softly while I lay there staring at the heavy wooden ceiling, still throbbing with unfulfilled need, my bridal lehenga tangled around my thighs, sindoor smudged on my forehead.
I thought that was it – the beginning of a normal, slightly disappointing married life. I was wrong.
My sasur ji, Pandit Shivnarayan Mishra – everyone calls him Pandit ji – is sixty-one but looks fifty. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in crisp white kurta-pajama or dhoti-kurta, rudraksha mala around his neck, forehead marked with three thick lines of chandan and kumkum. His voice is deep, commanding; when he speaks the whole house falls silent. Even my father-in-law’s elder brother, who is ten years older, hesitates before contradicting him. He had personally chosen me after seeing my photo, saying “yeh ladki ghar ki izzat badhayegi”. Everyone thought it was because of my fair complexion, my MA in Sanskrit, my “sanskari” manners. Only later I understood the real reason.
The fourth night after marriage.
Vikram had to leave for an urgent seminar in Allahabad – two full days and nights. He kissed my forehead, said “be good, take care of everyone”, and left at 6 a.m. with his suitcase. The house felt suddenly bigger, emptier. Maa (my saas) was busy with her morning puja. Devar was at college. Jethani (Vikram’s elder brother’s wife) had gone to her mayka for a week. Only sasur ji and I were left in the main portion of the house along with two old servants who mostly stayed downstairs.
Around 11:30 a.m. the power went off – typical Varanasi summer electricity drama. The heat was murderous. I was in my room on the second floor, wearing a light pink cotton saree, sleeveless blouse because no one was around to judge. I opened all the windows hoping for some breeze from the Ganga. Sweat trickled down my neck, between my breasts, making the blouse stick to my skin. I was wiping my face with the pallu when I heard heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs.
Pandit ji appeared at the doorway.
He didn’t knock – he never does.
“Ananya beti… thandi lassi piyogi? Garmi bahut hai aaj.”
His voice was calm, almost fatherly. But his eyes… they roamed. Slowly. From my face to my neck, to the sweat-soaked blouse where my black bra was clearly visible through the wet cotton, down to where the saree had stuck to my stomach showing every curve, then lower to my bare midriff, navel, and finally the way the saree had draped low on my hips because I hadn’t tied the petticoat knot tight enough.
I pulled the pallu up instinctively. “Ji sasur ji… main bana deti hoon.”
“Nahin nahin,” he waved his hand. “Tu baith. Main laya hoon.”
He entered the room carrying a tall steel glass of lassi, frothy, with crushed ice floating on top. The moment he came close I smelled him – pure sandalwood attar mixed with the faint smoky smell of the havan he had done earlier, and underneath it… something masculine, raw, like musk from an old tiger.
He handed me the glass. Our fingers touched. His were thick, rough from years of holding rudraksha and doing yajna. Mine trembled slightly.
He didn’t leave.
Instead he pulled the old wooden chair and sat right in front of me, knees almost touching mine.
“Sharma mat, beti. Ghar mein sab apne hain.”
I sipped the lassi. Sweet, thick, cardamom flavored. A drop fell on my chin. Before I could wipe it he extended his hand – thumb slowly, deliberately wiped the drop from my chin and then… put that thumb in his own mouth, sucking it clean while looking straight into my eyes.
My stomach flipped.
Internal voice screaming: Yeh kya kar rahe hain sasur ji? Yeh galat hai… bahut galat hai!
But my body betrayed me. Nipples hardened under the wet blouse. I felt a familiar warmth pooling between my thighs.
He saw.
Of course he saw.
A slow smile spread on his face – not lecherous, but triumphant, like a man who finally got confirmation of something he already knew.
“Vikram se khush hai tu?”
I almost choked on the lassi. “Ji… haan… bilkul.”
“Jhooth mat bol, beti.” His voice dropped an octave. “Main sab sunta hoon. Diwaron ke bhi kaan hote hain.”
My face burned. He knew. He knew his son couldn’t satisfy me.
He leaned closer. “Ek baat bataun? Main tujhe pehli baar mandir mein dekha tha jab tu apni saheliyon ke saath aayi thi. Laal chunari, kajal, bindi… tabhi soch liya tha ki yeh ladki mere ghar ki bahu banegi. Aur maine banayi bhi.”
He was confessing. Casually. Like discussing the weather.
I should have run. Screamed. Slapped him. But my legs felt heavy. And somewhere deep inside, a dark, shameful part of me felt… flattered. Chosen. Desired by the most powerful man in the house.
He reached out and lightly touched the edge of my saree pallu. “Yeh garmi mein takleef ho rahi hai na? Nikal de.”
It wasn’t a request.
My hands shook as I let the pallu slide down my shoulder. The blouse was almost transparent now. My black bra cups were clearly visible, nipples poking through like hard berries.
His breathing changed – became deeper, heavier.
“Kitni sundar hai tu, Ananya…” First time he took my name without “beti”. It felt intimate. Dirty. Wrong. Exciting.
He stood up, towering over me. Slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his kurta. Chest hair salt-and-pepper, broad, strong. Smell of sandalwood stronger now.
Then he did something that made my heart stop.
He took my hand and placed it on his crotch.
Even through the dhoti I could feel it – thick, heavy, already half-hard. Much bigger than Vikram. Much thicker.
I gasped. Tried to pull back.
He held my wrist. Not painfully. Firmly.
“Dekh le, beti. Yeh tere liye hi taiyar hua hai chaar din se.”
Internal war: Yeh paap hai… sasur ji hain… ghar ki izzat… sab barbaad ho jayega…
But my fingers curled around the shape involuntarily. Felt it twitch. Grow.
He groaned – low, animal sound.
Then he pulled me up, crushed me against his chest. His lips found my neck – rough beard scratching, tongue licking the sweat. I whimpered.
“Ssshhh… chup. Koi sun lega toh?”
The risk. The huge, terrifying risk. Servants downstairs. Saas in her room. Neighbors could hear. Yet that fear only made the wetness between my legs worse.
He walked me backwards until my back hit the wall. Hands everywhere – squeezing my waist, roaming up to my breasts, pinching nipples through blouse and bra. I moaned – soft, helpless.
“Uffff… sasur ji…”
First time I said it like that. Like surrender.
He smiled against my neck. “Ab se sirf sasur bolna. Samjhi?”
I nodded.
He tore open my blouse hooks – pop pop pop. Bra exposed. Black lace. He pushed the cups down roughly, freeing my breasts. They bounced. He stared like a starving man.
“Kitne mast chuche hain tere… bilkul doodh jaise.”
Then he attacked – mouth on one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing. Other hand kneading the second breast. I cried out – “Aaaahhhh… dard ho raha hai…”
“Thoda dard toh banta hai pehli baar jab sasur apni bahu ko chode.”
The words – so crude, so filthy – made me gush. I felt my panties soak through.
He dropped to his knees – surprising for a man his age – lifted my saree and petticoat together. Cool air hit my wet thighs. He buried his face between my legs, nose rubbing my panty-covered choot.
Smell of my arousal must have hit him hard because he growled.
“Kitni geeli ho gayi hai meri bahu… bas teen din mein hi.”
He pulled the panty aside. First long lick from bottom to top. Tongue flat, rough. I bucked.
“Aaaahhhh… sasur ji… nahin…”
But my hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer.
He ate me like a man possessed – tongue inside, circling clit, sucking the nub, then tongue-fucking me deep. Wet slurping sounds filled the room. I was dripping on his beard.
First orgasm hit like a train – legs shaking, “Ohhhh… aaaahhhhh… main jhad rahi hoon… sasur ji!”
He drank every drop.
Then stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ab teri baari.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, untied his dhoti. Lund sprang out.
I stared.
Thick. Nine inches at least. Dark, veiny, mushroom topi already leaking. Balls heavy, hanging low.
“Bolo, kitna bada lag raha hai?”
I whispered, “Bahut… bahut bada hai sasur ji…”
He chuckled. “Chal, choos.”
I knelt between his thighs. Smell – musky, masculine, overpowering. First tentative lick on the topi – salty pre-cum. Then I opened my mouth, took the head in. Too big. Jaw ached already. He guided my head – gentle at first, then deeper. I gagged. Saliva drooled down my chin.
“Good girl… aise hi… pura muh mein le.”
I tried. Managed more than half. Bobbed my head. Hand stroking the base I couldn’t fit.
He groaned, “Uffff… teri jeebh kitni garam hai…”
After five minutes he pulled me up. “Bas. Ab main teri choot mein daalna chahta hoon.”
He laid me on the bed – same bed where Vikram and I had our disappointing suhaagraat. Pushed my saree and petticoat up to my waist. Spread my legs wide.
Positioned himself. Topi rubbing my entrance.
“Bol, kya chahiye?”
I was beyond shame now.
“Aapka lund… meri choot mein chahiye sasur ji… please…”
He pushed.
One hard thrust – half inside.
I screamed into the pillow – “Aaaahhhhhh… phaad doge!”
“Dheere dheere le… meri bahu strong hai.”
Another push – balls deep.
I felt so full. Stretched. Owned.
He started moving – slow, powerful strokes. Bed creaking loudly. I prayed no one downstairs heard.
Then faster. Harder. Flesh slapping flesh – loud, obscene.
“Le… le meri randi bahu… pura le!”
Dirty words made me clench around him.
Second orgasm – “Sasur ji… phir aa rahi hoon… aaaahhhhh!”
He didn’t stop. Flipped me into doggy. Ass up. Slapped my gaand hard – red print.
“Kitni mast gaand hai… ek din isme bhi daalunga.”
I shivered at the thought.
He entered again from behind – deeper angle. Hit spots Vikram never reached. I pushed back, moaning continuously.
“Zor se… maar do… meri choot ko phaad do sasur ji!”
He pounded mercilessly. Sweat dripping from his chest onto my back.
Then he pulled out, flipped me again – missionary. Legs over his shoulders.
“Look at me while I fill you.”
Eyes locked. He thrust deep, deep, deep.
“I’m going to cum inside you, beti… pura bhar dunga… tera pet bhar dunga.”
The thought – sasur ka cum meri choot mein – pushed me over again. Third orgasm – squirting this time, wetting his stomach.
He roared – “Le… le… aaahhhhhh!”
Hot spurts. Thick. Endless. I felt every pulse. Overflowing. Dripping down my gaand crack.
He stayed inside long minutes, softening slowly, kissing my forehead, my lips, my tears.
Then pulled out. Cum poured out – white, thick, obscene.
He scooped some with fingers, fed it to me.
“Chaat… apne sasur ka maal taste kar.”
I sucked his fingers clean. Salty. Thick.
We lay there, panting.
Afterglow was strange – immense guilt mixed with bone-deep satisfaction.
He caressed my hair. “Kal raat phir aayunga. Vikram ke kamre mein nahi… mere kamre mein. Wahan koi nahi aata.”
I whispered, “Ji sasur ji…”
He smiled. “Aur ek baat. Agar pet ho gaya toh… sabko lagega Vikram ka hai. Tu fikar mat kar.”
My heart raced.
Pregnancy scare? Or pregnancy plan?
He left the room quietly.
I lay there, saree ruined, choot sore and leaking his seed, mind spinning.
What had I done?
What was I going to do?
Because deep down… I already knew.
I would go to his room tomorrow night.
And the night after.
And the night after that.
Until this sin consumed me completely.
(Word count: 2874)
I’ll continue writing to reach deeper.
The next morning I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Saas asked why I looked so pale. I said headache from heat. She gave me medicine and told me to rest.
But rest was impossible.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw sasur ji’s face between my thighs, felt his thickness stretching me, heard his dirty whispers.
By afternoon the guilt was unbearable. I cried in the bathroom, silently, thinking main kitni gandi ho gayi hoon… sasur ji ke saath…
Yet when evening came, I bathed carefully. Applied extra kohl. Chose a deep maroon saree – the one I wore on my first night after marriage. Tied it low. Wore the same black lace bra and panty he had torn yesterday (I had washed it secretly).
At 10:30 p.m., when the whole house was asleep except for the distant sound of Ganga aarti still going on, I crept to the third floor – his private quarters.
Door was slightly open. Candle burning inside.
He was waiting – shirtless, dhoti tied low, rudraksha mala shining on his chest.
He didn’t speak. Just beckoned with one finger.
I entered. Door closed behind me with a soft click.
This time he took his time.
Made me stand in the middle of the room.
Slowly unwrapped my saree – fold by fold – like unwrapping a gift.
When only blouse and petticoat remained, he circled me like a predator.
“Kitni khubsurat hai meri bahu… bilkul devdasi jaisi.”
He untied petticoat. It fell.
Then blouse. Bra. Panties last.
I stood naked in front of my sasur, trembling.
He made me kneel again – longer blowjob this time. Taught me tricks – how to use tongue under the ridge, how to take him deep without gagging, how to fondle his heavy balls.
When he was rock hard and dripping, he lifted me, carried me to his ancient four-poster bed – the same bed where Vikram was conceived.
Laid me down reverently.
This time no hurry.
Long, slow missionary – kissing deeply, tongues entwined, his hands worshipping every inch of my body.
Then cowgirl – I rode him, controlling pace, my breasts bouncing in his face. He sucked, bit, marked them with love bites that would be hard to hide tomorrow.
Reverse cowgirl – he watched my gaand move up and down his shaft, slapping it occasionally, calling me “meri chhoti si randi bahu”.
Doggy again – this time with hair pulling, harder slaps.
Finally, prone bone – me flat on stomach, him covering me completely, thrusting deep while whispering in my ear:
“Kal se tu roz raat mere paas aayegi. Vikram jab bhi bahar jayega, tu meri hogi. Samjhi?”
I moaned “Haan sasur ji… main aapki hoon…”
He came inside again – second creampie in twenty-four hours.
This time I didn’t cry from guilt.
I smiled in the dark.
Because the addiction had already begun.
And there was no going back.
I thought that was it – the beginning of a normal, slightly disappointing married life. I was wrong.
My sasur ji, Pandit Shivnarayan Mishra – everyone calls him Pandit ji – is sixty-one but looks fifty. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in crisp white kurta-pajama or dhoti-kurta, rudraksha mala around his neck, forehead marked with three thick lines of chandan and kumkum. His voice is deep, commanding; when he speaks the whole house falls silent. Even my father-in-law’s elder brother, who is ten years older, hesitates before contradicting him. He had personally chosen me after seeing my photo, saying “yeh ladki ghar ki izzat badhayegi”. Everyone thought it was because of my fair complexion, my MA in Sanskrit, my “sanskari” manners. Only later I understood the real reason.
The fourth night after marriage.
Vikram had to leave for an urgent seminar in Allahabad – two full days and nights. He kissed my forehead, said “be good, take care of everyone”, and left at 6 a.m. with his suitcase. The house felt suddenly bigger, emptier. Maa (my saas) was busy with her morning puja. Devar was at college. Jethani (Vikram’s elder brother’s wife) had gone to her mayka for a week. Only sasur ji and I were left in the main portion of the house along with two old servants who mostly stayed downstairs.
Around 11:30 a.m. the power went off – typical Varanasi summer electricity drama. The heat was murderous. I was in my room on the second floor, wearing a light pink cotton saree, sleeveless blouse because no one was around to judge. I opened all the windows hoping for some breeze from the Ganga. Sweat trickled down my neck, between my breasts, making the blouse stick to my skin. I was wiping my face with the pallu when I heard heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs.
Pandit ji appeared at the doorway.
He didn’t knock – he never does.
“Ananya beti… thandi lassi piyogi? Garmi bahut hai aaj.”
His voice was calm, almost fatherly. But his eyes… they roamed. Slowly. From my face to my neck, to the sweat-soaked blouse where my black bra was clearly visible through the wet cotton, down to where the saree had stuck to my stomach showing every curve, then lower to my bare midriff, navel, and finally the way the saree had draped low on my hips because I hadn’t tied the petticoat knot tight enough.
I pulled the pallu up instinctively. “Ji sasur ji… main bana deti hoon.”
“Nahin nahin,” he waved his hand. “Tu baith. Main laya hoon.”
He entered the room carrying a tall steel glass of lassi, frothy, with crushed ice floating on top. The moment he came close I smelled him – pure sandalwood attar mixed with the faint smoky smell of the havan he had done earlier, and underneath it… something masculine, raw, like musk from an old tiger.
He handed me the glass. Our fingers touched. His were thick, rough from years of holding rudraksha and doing yajna. Mine trembled slightly.
He didn’t leave.
Instead he pulled the old wooden chair and sat right in front of me, knees almost touching mine.
“Sharma mat, beti. Ghar mein sab apne hain.”
I sipped the lassi. Sweet, thick, cardamom flavored. A drop fell on my chin. Before I could wipe it he extended his hand – thumb slowly, deliberately wiped the drop from my chin and then… put that thumb in his own mouth, sucking it clean while looking straight into my eyes.
My stomach flipped.
Internal voice screaming: Yeh kya kar rahe hain sasur ji? Yeh galat hai… bahut galat hai!
But my body betrayed me. Nipples hardened under the wet blouse. I felt a familiar warmth pooling between my thighs.
He saw.
Of course he saw.
A slow smile spread on his face – not lecherous, but triumphant, like a man who finally got confirmation of something he already knew.
“Vikram se khush hai tu?”
I almost choked on the lassi. “Ji… haan… bilkul.”
“Jhooth mat bol, beti.” His voice dropped an octave. “Main sab sunta hoon. Diwaron ke bhi kaan hote hain.”
My face burned. He knew. He knew his son couldn’t satisfy me.
He leaned closer. “Ek baat bataun? Main tujhe pehli baar mandir mein dekha tha jab tu apni saheliyon ke saath aayi thi. Laal chunari, kajal, bindi… tabhi soch liya tha ki yeh ladki mere ghar ki bahu banegi. Aur maine banayi bhi.”
He was confessing. Casually. Like discussing the weather.
I should have run. Screamed. Slapped him. But my legs felt heavy. And somewhere deep inside, a dark, shameful part of me felt… flattered. Chosen. Desired by the most powerful man in the house.
He reached out and lightly touched the edge of my saree pallu. “Yeh garmi mein takleef ho rahi hai na? Nikal de.”
It wasn’t a request.
My hands shook as I let the pallu slide down my shoulder. The blouse was almost transparent now. My black bra cups were clearly visible, nipples poking through like hard berries.
His breathing changed – became deeper, heavier.
“Kitni sundar hai tu, Ananya…” First time he took my name without “beti”. It felt intimate. Dirty. Wrong. Exciting.
He stood up, towering over me. Slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his kurta. Chest hair salt-and-pepper, broad, strong. Smell of sandalwood stronger now.
Then he did something that made my heart stop.
He took my hand and placed it on his crotch.
Even through the dhoti I could feel it – thick, heavy, already half-hard. Much bigger than Vikram. Much thicker.
I gasped. Tried to pull back.
He held my wrist. Not painfully. Firmly.
“Dekh le, beti. Yeh tere liye hi taiyar hua hai chaar din se.”
Internal war: Yeh paap hai… sasur ji hain… ghar ki izzat… sab barbaad ho jayega…
But my fingers curled around the shape involuntarily. Felt it twitch. Grow.
He groaned – low, animal sound.
Then he pulled me up, crushed me against his chest. His lips found my neck – rough beard scratching, tongue licking the sweat. I whimpered.
“Ssshhh… chup. Koi sun lega toh?”
The risk. The huge, terrifying risk. Servants downstairs. Saas in her room. Neighbors could hear. Yet that fear only made the wetness between my legs worse.
He walked me backwards until my back hit the wall. Hands everywhere – squeezing my waist, roaming up to my breasts, pinching nipples through blouse and bra. I moaned – soft, helpless.
“Uffff… sasur ji…”
First time I said it like that. Like surrender.
He smiled against my neck. “Ab se sirf sasur bolna. Samjhi?”
I nodded.
He tore open my blouse hooks – pop pop pop. Bra exposed. Black lace. He pushed the cups down roughly, freeing my breasts. They bounced. He stared like a starving man.
“Kitne mast chuche hain tere… bilkul doodh jaise.”
Then he attacked – mouth on one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing. Other hand kneading the second breast. I cried out – “Aaaahhhh… dard ho raha hai…”
“Thoda dard toh banta hai pehli baar jab sasur apni bahu ko chode.”
The words – so crude, so filthy – made me gush. I felt my panties soak through.
He dropped to his knees – surprising for a man his age – lifted my saree and petticoat together. Cool air hit my wet thighs. He buried his face between my legs, nose rubbing my panty-covered choot.
Smell of my arousal must have hit him hard because he growled.
“Kitni geeli ho gayi hai meri bahu… bas teen din mein hi.”
He pulled the panty aside. First long lick from bottom to top. Tongue flat, rough. I bucked.
“Aaaahhhh… sasur ji… nahin…”
But my hands were already in his hair, pulling him closer.
He ate me like a man possessed – tongue inside, circling clit, sucking the nub, then tongue-fucking me deep. Wet slurping sounds filled the room. I was dripping on his beard.
First orgasm hit like a train – legs shaking, “Ohhhh… aaaahhhhh… main jhad rahi hoon… sasur ji!”
He drank every drop.
Then stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ab teri baari.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, untied his dhoti. Lund sprang out.
I stared.
Thick. Nine inches at least. Dark, veiny, mushroom topi already leaking. Balls heavy, hanging low.
“Bolo, kitna bada lag raha hai?”
I whispered, “Bahut… bahut bada hai sasur ji…”
He chuckled. “Chal, choos.”
I knelt between his thighs. Smell – musky, masculine, overpowering. First tentative lick on the topi – salty pre-cum. Then I opened my mouth, took the head in. Too big. Jaw ached already. He guided my head – gentle at first, then deeper. I gagged. Saliva drooled down my chin.
“Good girl… aise hi… pura muh mein le.”
I tried. Managed more than half. Bobbed my head. Hand stroking the base I couldn’t fit.
He groaned, “Uffff… teri jeebh kitni garam hai…”
After five minutes he pulled me up. “Bas. Ab main teri choot mein daalna chahta hoon.”
He laid me on the bed – same bed where Vikram and I had our disappointing suhaagraat. Pushed my saree and petticoat up to my waist. Spread my legs wide.
Positioned himself. Topi rubbing my entrance.
“Bol, kya chahiye?”
I was beyond shame now.
“Aapka lund… meri choot mein chahiye sasur ji… please…”
He pushed.
One hard thrust – half inside.
I screamed into the pillow – “Aaaahhhhhh… phaad doge!”
“Dheere dheere le… meri bahu strong hai.”
Another push – balls deep.
I felt so full. Stretched. Owned.
He started moving – slow, powerful strokes. Bed creaking loudly. I prayed no one downstairs heard.
Then faster. Harder. Flesh slapping flesh – loud, obscene.
“Le… le meri randi bahu… pura le!”
Dirty words made me clench around him.
Second orgasm – “Sasur ji… phir aa rahi hoon… aaaahhhhh!”
He didn’t stop. Flipped me into doggy. Ass up. Slapped my gaand hard – red print.
“Kitni mast gaand hai… ek din isme bhi daalunga.”
I shivered at the thought.
He entered again from behind – deeper angle. Hit spots Vikram never reached. I pushed back, moaning continuously.
“Zor se… maar do… meri choot ko phaad do sasur ji!”
He pounded mercilessly. Sweat dripping from his chest onto my back.
Then he pulled out, flipped me again – missionary. Legs over his shoulders.
“Look at me while I fill you.”
Eyes locked. He thrust deep, deep, deep.
“I’m going to cum inside you, beti… pura bhar dunga… tera pet bhar dunga.”
The thought – sasur ka cum meri choot mein – pushed me over again. Third orgasm – squirting this time, wetting his stomach.
He roared – “Le… le… aaahhhhhh!”
Hot spurts. Thick. Endless. I felt every pulse. Overflowing. Dripping down my gaand crack.
He stayed inside long minutes, softening slowly, kissing my forehead, my lips, my tears.
Then pulled out. Cum poured out – white, thick, obscene.
He scooped some with fingers, fed it to me.
“Chaat… apne sasur ka maal taste kar.”
I sucked his fingers clean. Salty. Thick.
We lay there, panting.
Afterglow was strange – immense guilt mixed with bone-deep satisfaction.
He caressed my hair. “Kal raat phir aayunga. Vikram ke kamre mein nahi… mere kamre mein. Wahan koi nahi aata.”
I whispered, “Ji sasur ji…”
He smiled. “Aur ek baat. Agar pet ho gaya toh… sabko lagega Vikram ka hai. Tu fikar mat kar.”
My heart raced.
Pregnancy scare? Or pregnancy plan?
He left the room quietly.
I lay there, saree ruined, choot sore and leaking his seed, mind spinning.
What had I done?
What was I going to do?
Because deep down… I already knew.
I would go to his room tomorrow night.
And the night after.
And the night after that.
Until this sin consumed me completely.
(Word count: 2874)
I’ll continue writing to reach deeper.
The next morning I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Saas asked why I looked so pale. I said headache from heat. She gave me medicine and told me to rest.
But rest was impossible.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw sasur ji’s face between my thighs, felt his thickness stretching me, heard his dirty whispers.
By afternoon the guilt was unbearable. I cried in the bathroom, silently, thinking main kitni gandi ho gayi hoon… sasur ji ke saath…
Yet when evening came, I bathed carefully. Applied extra kohl. Chose a deep maroon saree – the one I wore on my first night after marriage. Tied it low. Wore the same black lace bra and panty he had torn yesterday (I had washed it secretly).
At 10:30 p.m., when the whole house was asleep except for the distant sound of Ganga aarti still going on, I crept to the third floor – his private quarters.
Door was slightly open. Candle burning inside.
He was waiting – shirtless, dhoti tied low, rudraksha mala shining on his chest.
He didn’t speak. Just beckoned with one finger.
I entered. Door closed behind me with a soft click.
This time he took his time.
Made me stand in the middle of the room.
Slowly unwrapped my saree – fold by fold – like unwrapping a gift.
When only blouse and petticoat remained, he circled me like a predator.
“Kitni khubsurat hai meri bahu… bilkul devdasi jaisi.”
He untied petticoat. It fell.
Then blouse. Bra. Panties last.
I stood naked in front of my sasur, trembling.
He made me kneel again – longer blowjob this time. Taught me tricks – how to use tongue under the ridge, how to take him deep without gagging, how to fondle his heavy balls.
When he was rock hard and dripping, he lifted me, carried me to his ancient four-poster bed – the same bed where Vikram was conceived.
Laid me down reverently.
This time no hurry.
Long, slow missionary – kissing deeply, tongues entwined, his hands worshipping every inch of my body.
Then cowgirl – I rode him, controlling pace, my breasts bouncing in his face. He sucked, bit, marked them with love bites that would be hard to hide tomorrow.
Reverse cowgirl – he watched my gaand move up and down his shaft, slapping it occasionally, calling me “meri chhoti si randi bahu”.
Doggy again – this time with hair pulling, harder slaps.
Finally, prone bone – me flat on stomach, him covering me completely, thrusting deep while whispering in my ear:
“Kal se tu roz raat mere paas aayegi. Vikram jab bhi bahar jayega, tu meri hogi. Samjhi?”
I moaned “Haan sasur ji… main aapki hoon…”
He came inside again – second creampie in twenty-four hours.
This time I didn’t cry from guilt.
I smiled in the dark.
Because the addiction had already begun.
And there was no going back.