The hills of Mount Abu have a way of stripping away pretences. The air is thin, the mist clings to everything, and secrets feel closer to the surface. Our family had come here to celebrate Dad’s retirement—parents, my elder brother Vikram and his wife Sonia jethani, me, and two younger cousins. The resort was a beautiful old haveli-style property with stone arches, wooden beams, and rooms overlooking the valley. I was 19, just back from my first year at NIT Surat, shy as ever, no girlfriend, no experience. Virgin. And the woman who lived rent-free in my head? Sonia jethani.
She was 32, married to bhaiya for five years, and every inch a fantasy. Long wavy hair with subtle highlights, golden skin that glowed in the hill sun, sharp features with a constant playful smile, and a body that made my mouth dry. 38D breasts that filled her kurtis and blouses perfectly, a soft yet toned waist, wide hips that swayed when she walked, and an ass so round and firm it looked sculpted. She was bold—laughing loud at family jokes, dancing at small gatherings, but with me there was always something extra: a lingering touch on my arm, a hug that lasted too long with her chest pressed against me, sitting close during card games with her hand resting high on my thigh, whispering “mera sweet devar” in a voice that shot straight to my cock.
I’d been obsessed since their wedding. Stole her dupattas when she visited, inhaled her perfume from pillows, jerked off in the bathroom to thoughts of her moaning my name. Guilt followed every time, but the desire only grew.
The booking disaster happened on arrival—peak season, overbooking. Only three rooms. Parents took one, cousins crammed the second, leaving the deluxe suite for bhaiya, jethani, and me: one massive king bed and a narrow antique divan too short for anyone.
Bhaiya shrugged. “Main divan pe adjust kar lunga. Altitude headache hai waise bhi.” Jethani’s eyes flicked to mine, a tiny smile playing. “Haan ji, devar ke saath toh comfortable hi rahungi. Kitna pyara hai mera Riaan.” My heart slammed against my ribs.
The suite was romantic—polished wood floors, heavy Rajasthani quilts, fireplace ready for chilly nights, large windows opening to misty hills and distant lake view. Bhaiya crashed early every night—tired from drives and walks, snoring within minutes on the divan.
First night, after bonfire and local wine, we returned. Bhaiya out cold. Jethani went to the bathroom, emerged in a satin nightdress—short, deep red, low-cut, clinging to every curve, nipples faintly visible through thin fabric. No bra. The hem barely covered her thick thighs. She smelled of vanilla and something intoxicating.
We lay on opposite sides of the huge bed, careful gap, quilts pulled high. Silence except for bhaiya’s snores and wind outside.
“Devar,” she whispered after twenty minutes, “so gaya kya?”
“Nahi jethani… neend nahi aa rahi.”
She shifted closer, voice low. “Thand lag rahi hai na? Aa ja paas. Jethani garam kar degi.”
I moved, heart thundering. She turned her back to me, pulled my arm over her waist like spooning. Her ass—soft, full—pressed directly against my crotch. My cock hardened instantly, nestling between her cheeks through thin layers.
She felt it. Didn’t pull away. Instead, she ground back slowly, deliberately.
“Yeh kya hai itna sakht aur garam, devar?” Her hand reached back, cupping my bulge firmly. “Mera innocent devar… itna mota lund? Jethani ko pata tha tu mujhe chupke dekhta hai—functions mein, ghar pe, meri saree badalte waqt darwaze se.”
I groaned softly, hips bucking into her hand. “Jethani please… bhaiya yahin hain…”
“Shh… bhaiya so rahe hain. Aur yeh jethani devar forbidden attraction humara secret rahega.” She squeezed rhythmically. “Bata na sach… kitni baar jethani ke boobs dekh ke muth maara? Meri tight blouses mein cleavage… ya jeans mein gaand hilte dekh ke lund hilata tha bathroom mein? Jethani ki bra soongh ke?”
Shame and lust crashed together. “Haan jethani… roz… aapki khushboo… aapke naam se… sorry…”
She turned to face me, eyes dark and hungry in the dim light. “Sorry kyun? Aaj jethani tujhe asli mazaa degi. Apne devar ka virgin lund apni geeli chut mein legi.”
She pushed me flat gently, straddled my waist without a sound. The nightdress rode up—no panties, her wet heat rubbing directly on my stomach. She yanked my shorts down carefully. My cock sprang free—8 inches, thick, veiny, already leaking.
“Arre waah devar… tera bhaiya se bada aur mota lund. Yeh toh jethani ki chut aur gaand dono phaad dega.”
She stroked slow, twisting at the head, smearing pre-cum. “Kitna garam hai… ras nikal raha hai… taste karun apne devar ka lund?”
She slid down silently, took me deep—hot, wet mouth, expert suction, throat relaxing. Bobbing careful but deep, tongue swirling.
“Mmm… devar ka lund… kitna tasty… jethani ki muh bhar diya tune… dheere dheere chod muh…”
I lasted seconds. “Jethani… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, hand pumping base. “Mere muh mein daal de… jethani pi legi tera pura thick maal… har boond… haan aa ja quietly…”
I erupted—thick ropes down her throat. She swallowed greedily, no spill, eyes locked on mine. Then licked clean, popping off softly.
“Kitna powerful hai mera devar… abhi se itna ras.”
She pulled the nightdress off—naked perfection, heavy milky tits with dark pink nipples, trimmed pussy glistening.
“Ab choos jethani ke bade bade boobs… dheere se… kaat mat zor se, bhaiya jag jaayenge…”
I attacked quietly—sucking one nipple, pinching the other, hands full of soft flesh. She arched silently, biting her lip.
Then guided my head down. “Chat jethani ki chut… taste kar apni jethani ka ras…”
Her scent—musky sweet. I licked long strokes, sucked her swollen clit, slid fingers inside her soaking heat.
“Haan devar… zor se chat… jeebh andar daal… ahh… kitna acha kar raha hai tu… bana de jethani ko apni randi dheere se…”
She came hard but muffled—hand over mouth, thighs shaking, juices flooding my tongue.
She straddled my cock again. “Ab asli… jethani tere lund ko apni chut mein legi dheere dheere…”
Sank down slow—scorching velvet grip. “Oh… kitna mota… jethani ki chut bhar di… ab dheere dheere chod… feel kar…”
Slow grinding, her hips circling, tits swaying inches from my face. I sucked quietly as she rocked.
Faster then, still controlled. “Haan… thoda zor se… pel apni jethani ko… bana de apni kutiya silently… bata kitne din se jethani ki chut marne ka sapna?”
“Roz jethani… ab sach mein…”
“Andar daal devar… creampie de jethani ko… bhar de meri chut apne garam maal se…”
I filled her deep. She clenched, cumming again, nails digging my shoulders.
We lay panting, her head on my chest.
That was just the beginning.
The entire trip became our secret playground.
Mornings: bhaiya went for walks or calls—quick oral under quilts. “Subah subah jethani ka muh bhar de ras se…”
Afternoons: family treks or lake boating, we “rested”—marathon sessions. Tried anal with body lotion—slow, oiled, her begging whispered “phad de jethani ki gaand devar… roz maar ab…”
Nights: when bhaiya slept, slow intimate spooning turning rough missionary, doggy against window with misty view.
One evening, sneaked to deserted viewpoint—her bent over railing, skirt hiked, risky standing fuck. “Yahan chod mujhe… koi aa jaaye toh? Zor se pel devar…”
Dirty talk nonstop, always careful volume.
Between rounds, real talks.
She confessed bhaiya is loving but vanilla—quick, lights off. “Tu mujhe wild feel karata hai… tera stamina, tera mota lund… jethani devar intense encounters ne bigad diya mujhe.”
I admitted everything—obsession since wedding, stealing her things.
One misty dawn, slow love-making watching sunrise from balcony, wrapped in quilt—she whispered “I love you, devar. Not just body. More.”
She was 32, married to bhaiya for five years, and every inch a fantasy. Long wavy hair with subtle highlights, golden skin that glowed in the hill sun, sharp features with a constant playful smile, and a body that made my mouth dry. 38D breasts that filled her kurtis and blouses perfectly, a soft yet toned waist, wide hips that swayed when she walked, and an ass so round and firm it looked sculpted. She was bold—laughing loud at family jokes, dancing at small gatherings, but with me there was always something extra: a lingering touch on my arm, a hug that lasted too long with her chest pressed against me, sitting close during card games with her hand resting high on my thigh, whispering “mera sweet devar” in a voice that shot straight to my cock.
I’d been obsessed since their wedding. Stole her dupattas when she visited, inhaled her perfume from pillows, jerked off in the bathroom to thoughts of her moaning my name. Guilt followed every time, but the desire only grew.
The booking disaster happened on arrival—peak season, overbooking. Only three rooms. Parents took one, cousins crammed the second, leaving the deluxe suite for bhaiya, jethani, and me: one massive king bed and a narrow antique divan too short for anyone.
Bhaiya shrugged. “Main divan pe adjust kar lunga. Altitude headache hai waise bhi.” Jethani’s eyes flicked to mine, a tiny smile playing. “Haan ji, devar ke saath toh comfortable hi rahungi. Kitna pyara hai mera Riaan.” My heart slammed against my ribs.
The suite was romantic—polished wood floors, heavy Rajasthani quilts, fireplace ready for chilly nights, large windows opening to misty hills and distant lake view. Bhaiya crashed early every night—tired from drives and walks, snoring within minutes on the divan.
First night, after bonfire and local wine, we returned. Bhaiya out cold. Jethani went to the bathroom, emerged in a satin nightdress—short, deep red, low-cut, clinging to every curve, nipples faintly visible through thin fabric. No bra. The hem barely covered her thick thighs. She smelled of vanilla and something intoxicating.
We lay on opposite sides of the huge bed, careful gap, quilts pulled high. Silence except for bhaiya’s snores and wind outside.
“Devar,” she whispered after twenty minutes, “so gaya kya?”
“Nahi jethani… neend nahi aa rahi.”
She shifted closer, voice low. “Thand lag rahi hai na? Aa ja paas. Jethani garam kar degi.”
I moved, heart thundering. She turned her back to me, pulled my arm over her waist like spooning. Her ass—soft, full—pressed directly against my crotch. My cock hardened instantly, nestling between her cheeks through thin layers.
She felt it. Didn’t pull away. Instead, she ground back slowly, deliberately.
“Yeh kya hai itna sakht aur garam, devar?” Her hand reached back, cupping my bulge firmly. “Mera innocent devar… itna mota lund? Jethani ko pata tha tu mujhe chupke dekhta hai—functions mein, ghar pe, meri saree badalte waqt darwaze se.”
I groaned softly, hips bucking into her hand. “Jethani please… bhaiya yahin hain…”
“Shh… bhaiya so rahe hain. Aur yeh jethani devar forbidden attraction humara secret rahega.” She squeezed rhythmically. “Bata na sach… kitni baar jethani ke boobs dekh ke muth maara? Meri tight blouses mein cleavage… ya jeans mein gaand hilte dekh ke lund hilata tha bathroom mein? Jethani ki bra soongh ke?”
Shame and lust crashed together. “Haan jethani… roz… aapki khushboo… aapke naam se… sorry…”
She turned to face me, eyes dark and hungry in the dim light. “Sorry kyun? Aaj jethani tujhe asli mazaa degi. Apne devar ka virgin lund apni geeli chut mein legi.”
She pushed me flat gently, straddled my waist without a sound. The nightdress rode up—no panties, her wet heat rubbing directly on my stomach. She yanked my shorts down carefully. My cock sprang free—8 inches, thick, veiny, already leaking.
“Arre waah devar… tera bhaiya se bada aur mota lund. Yeh toh jethani ki chut aur gaand dono phaad dega.”
She stroked slow, twisting at the head, smearing pre-cum. “Kitna garam hai… ras nikal raha hai… taste karun apne devar ka lund?”
She slid down silently, took me deep—hot, wet mouth, expert suction, throat relaxing. Bobbing careful but deep, tongue swirling.
“Mmm… devar ka lund… kitna tasty… jethani ki muh bhar diya tune… dheere dheere chod muh…”
I lasted seconds. “Jethani… nikalne wala hai…”
She sucked harder, hand pumping base. “Mere muh mein daal de… jethani pi legi tera pura thick maal… har boond… haan aa ja quietly…”
I erupted—thick ropes down her throat. She swallowed greedily, no spill, eyes locked on mine. Then licked clean, popping off softly.
“Kitna powerful hai mera devar… abhi se itna ras.”
She pulled the nightdress off—naked perfection, heavy milky tits with dark pink nipples, trimmed pussy glistening.
“Ab choos jethani ke bade bade boobs… dheere se… kaat mat zor se, bhaiya jag jaayenge…”
I attacked quietly—sucking one nipple, pinching the other, hands full of soft flesh. She arched silently, biting her lip.
Then guided my head down. “Chat jethani ki chut… taste kar apni jethani ka ras…”
Her scent—musky sweet. I licked long strokes, sucked her swollen clit, slid fingers inside her soaking heat.
“Haan devar… zor se chat… jeebh andar daal… ahh… kitna acha kar raha hai tu… bana de jethani ko apni randi dheere se…”
She came hard but muffled—hand over mouth, thighs shaking, juices flooding my tongue.
She straddled my cock again. “Ab asli… jethani tere lund ko apni chut mein legi dheere dheere…”
Sank down slow—scorching velvet grip. “Oh… kitna mota… jethani ki chut bhar di… ab dheere dheere chod… feel kar…”
Slow grinding, her hips circling, tits swaying inches from my face. I sucked quietly as she rocked.
Faster then, still controlled. “Haan… thoda zor se… pel apni jethani ko… bana de apni kutiya silently… bata kitne din se jethani ki chut marne ka sapna?”
“Roz jethani… ab sach mein…”
“Andar daal devar… creampie de jethani ko… bhar de meri chut apne garam maal se…”
I filled her deep. She clenched, cumming again, nails digging my shoulders.
We lay panting, her head on my chest.
That was just the beginning.
The entire trip became our secret playground.
Mornings: bhaiya went for walks or calls—quick oral under quilts. “Subah subah jethani ka muh bhar de ras se…”
Afternoons: family treks or lake boating, we “rested”—marathon sessions. Tried anal with body lotion—slow, oiled, her begging whispered “phad de jethani ki gaand devar… roz maar ab…”
Nights: when bhaiya slept, slow intimate spooning turning rough missionary, doggy against window with misty view.
One evening, sneaked to deserted viewpoint—her bent over railing, skirt hiked, risky standing fuck. “Yahan chod mujhe… koi aa jaaye toh? Zor se pel devar…”
Dirty talk nonstop, always careful volume.
Between rounds, real talks.
She confessed bhaiya is loving but vanilla—quick, lights off. “Tu mujhe wild feel karata hai… tera stamina, tera mota lund… jethani devar intense encounters ne bigad diya mujhe.”
I admitted everything—obsession since wedding, stealing her things.
One misty dawn, slow love-making watching sunrise from balcony, wrapped in quilt—she whispered “I love you, devar. Not just body. More.”