My name is Neha, and I’m twenty-eight years old, married for six years to Vikram, my husband who works as a sales manager and is always travelling. We live in a typical joint family bungalow in Mumbai suburbs — three storeys, eight family members, constant noise, and almost no privacy. Upstairs is where Vikram and I have our bedroom, but his younger brother Rohan, my devar, stays in the adjacent room. Rohan is twenty-four, just finished his MBA, tall, gym-built, with a mischievous smile and those intense eyes that always linger a little too long on my curves.
I know I shouldn’t think this way, but ever since Rohan moved back home after college, I’ve caught him staring. At my deep cleavage when I wear low-cut blouses with my sarees, at my round gaand when I bend to pick something up, at my heavy 36DD chuchi that sway even under loose nighties. Bhaiya (Vikram) is loving but boring in bed — quick, mechanical, lights off, missionary only. He cums in five minutes and rolls over. I’ve been starving for real passion, for someone to worship my body like it deserves.
It started innocently enough during last year’s Diwali preparations. The whole family was busy decorating, and I was in the kitchen making sweets, draped in a red silk saree that hugged my curves perfectly. The pallu kept slipping, revealing the deep valley between my big boobs. Rohan came in to help, wearing just a tight t-shirt and track pants. I noticed the outline of his lund immediately — thick and long even when soft.
“Bhabhi, aapko help chahiye?” he asked, voice low, standing closer than necessary.
I smiled. “Haan Rohan, yeh besan mix kar do.”
As he stirred, his arm brushed my waist. Electricity shot through me. I didn’t move away. Instead, I leaned forward to reach a spice jar, letting my pallu fall completely. My blouse was low-cut, black lace bra peeking out, creamy chuchi almost spilling.
He froze, staring openly. “Bhabhi… aapki… blouse…”
I pretended to adjust it slowly, giving him a full view. “Kya hua? Kuch galat hai kya?”
His face turned red, but his eyes were hungry. “Nahi bhabhi… bilkul perfect hai.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Bhaiya was snoring beside me after his usual quick session. I touched myself thinking of Rohan’s gaze, imagining his strong hands on my boobs, his mouth sucking my nipples. My chut was dripping.
The next day, Bhaiya left for a week-long tour. Perfect opportunity. The house was busy with relatives, but afternoons were quiet when everyone napped. I called Rohan to my room on the pretext of helping fix the AC remote.
He came in hesitantly, wearing shorts. I was in a thin cotton nightie, no bra, nipples clearly visible. The room was warm, fan slow.
“Rohan, yahan baitho,” I patted the bed beside me.
He sat, eyes on my thighs where the nightie had ridden up. I turned towards him, letting one strap slip off my shoulder, exposing half my left boob.
“Bhabhi… yeh…” he stammered.
I placed my hand on his thigh. “Rohan, mujhe pata hai tu mujhe kaise dekhta hai. Mujhe bhi achha lagta hai.”
He looked shocked but didn’t pull away. I moved my hand higher, brushing his now-hard lund through the shorts. It twitched, growing instantly.
“Bhabhi… yeh galat hai… Bhaiya…”
“Shhh,” I whispered, leaning in. “Bhaiya ko pata nahi chalega. Bas humara secret.”
I kissed him softly at first. He hesitated, then responded hungrily, his tongue pushing into my mouth. His hands finally grabbed my big chuchi, squeezing hard over the nightie. I moaned into his kiss.
He pulled the nightie down, freeing my heavy boobs. They bounced out, dark nipples erect. “Bhabhi ki itni badi aur juicy chuchi,” he groaned, burying his face between them. He sucked one nipple hard, biting gently, while pinching the other. I arched my back, fingers in his hair.
“Choos zor se, Rohan… teri bhabhi ki chuchi ko maar daal.”
He obeyed, switching sides, leaving wet marks and red bites. His free hand slid under my nightie, finding my panty-less chut already soaked.
“Bhabhi… aap bina panty ke… kitni garam ho.”
He rubbed my clit roughly, two fingers pushing inside easily. I bucked against his hand, cumming quickly — my first real orgasm in months.
Then I pushed him back, pulling off his shorts. His lund sprang free — thicker and longer than Bhaiya’s, at least 9 inches, veiny, head glistening. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly.
“Devar ji ka itna mota lund,” I purred. “Aaj teri bhabhi isko taste karegi.”
I knelt between his legs, taking the head into my mouth. He groaned loudly as I swirled my tongue, sucking deeper, taking half his length. I gagged a little but kept going, bobbing my head, saliva dripping. He held my hair, guiding gently at first, then thrusting lightly.
“Bhabhi… aap randi ho… itna achha choosti ho.”
Hearing that word made me wetter. I sucked harder, fondling his heavy balls, until he warned he was close. I pulled off and climbed on top, straddling him.
“Aaj teri bhabhi tujhe apni chut degi.”
I guided his thick lund to my entrance and sank down slowly. It stretched me deliciously, filling me completely. I started riding, slow at first, then faster, my big boobs bouncing wildly. He grabbed them, squeezing as I ground my clit against him.
“Chod mujhe Rohan… zor se… bana de mujhe apni randi.”
He flipped me over suddenly, putting me on all fours. From behind, he slammed in deep, pounding hard. His balls slapped my ass, hands spanking my gaand red. I buried my face in the pillow to muffle screams.
We came together — me clenching around him, him flooding my chut with hot cum. He stayed inside, kissing my back.
From that day, we became addicts. Every afternoon when the house slept, Rohan would sneak into my room. He’d fuck me in different positions — missionary with my legs over his shoulders, doggy while pulling my hair, me riding reverse cowgirl so he could watch my ass bounce.
He loved my boobs. One session, he made me kneel and tit-fuck him, his lund sliding between my oily chuchi until he came all over my neck and cleavage. I licked it clean.
Riskiest was in the kitchen. One evening, everyone was watching TV in the hall. I was washing dishes, bent over the sink in a short kurti. Rohan came behind me, lifted my kurti, pulled my leggings down, and entered me from behind quickly. He fucked fast and hard, one hand over my mouth, the other rubbing my clit. We both came silently, his cum dripping down my thighs as I finished dishes.
Another time on the terrace at night. Stars above, city lights below. He laid me on an old mattress, ate my chut for half an hour until I came twice on his tongue, then fucked me slow and deep under the open sky. “Bhabhi, main aapko pregnant kar dunga,” he whispered while cumming inside.
I started dressing sexier for him — deep neck blouses showing maximum cleavage, transparent sarees, tight salwar kameez hugging my curves. At family dinners, he’d sit opposite, staring down my blouse while I teased by adjusting my pallu slowly.
During Holi, when everyone was drunk on bhang and colors, we snuck to the store room. Covered in gulal, he ripped my wet white saree off, fucked me against sacks of flour, my red chuchi smeared with colors, his lund painted pink.
Bhaiya came back from tours oblivious. Sometimes he’d want sex, and I’d let him, but my mind was on Rohan’s thicker lund. Once, right after Bhaiya fucked me missionary and fell asleep, Rohan texted. I went to his room, still leaking Bhaiya’s cum, and Rohan fucked me harder, calling me his cheating randi bhabhi.
He introduced new things. Bought toys online — a vibrator he used on my clit while fucking my ass for the first time. Anal was painful initially, but now I crave it. He trained me to take his whole length in my gaand, cumming deep inside while fingering my chut.
We even did roleplay. I’d dress as a maid, call him “Saab” while he “punished” me for bad work by spanking and fucking. Or I’d be the dominant bhabhi ordering my devar to lick my feet and chut before allowing him inside.
Months turned into a year. Bhaiya got promoted, more travel. Rohan got a job but still lived home. Our secret continued — quickies in the bathroom during family functions, blowjobs in the car when we went shopping, full nights when Bhaiya was away.
Sometimes guilt hits. “Rohan, humein rukna chahiye,” I’d say after a particularly intense session.
But he’d just pull me close, suck my nipples until I begged for his lund again.
I know it’s cheating, taboo in our conservative family. If caught, everything would shatter. But the thrill, the passion, the way he makes my body sing — it’s worth every risk.
Now, whenever I see Rohan across the dinner table, smiling innocently at elders while his foot slides up my leg under the table, I know later he’ll be balls-deep in his bhabhi’s chut, turning me into his personal randi once more.
This forbidden devar-bhabhi chudai has ruined me for normal sex forever. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The afternoons became our sacred ritual. The house would fall into that heavy post-lunch silence — Sasurji snoring in his recliner, Nanad busy with her phone, kids at tuition. I’d send Rohan a simple WhatsApp: “Upstairs. Now.” He’d appear within minutes, locking the door softly behind him.
One particularly hot May afternoon stands out. The power was out again, ceiling fan useless. I waited naked on the bed, only a mangalsutra around my neck, lying between my heavy breasts. When he entered, eyes widening at the sight, I crooked a finger.
“Come worship your bhabhi properly.”
He stripped quickly, his muscular body glistening with sweat. Starting at my feet, he kissed up my calves, thighs, lingering at my inner thighs before reaching my shaved chut. He spread my lips with his thumbs and licked slowly, savoring every drop. I guided his head, grinding against his tongue until I flooded his mouth.
Then I returned the favor. I pushed him onto his back and took my time — licking his shaft from balls to tip, sucking each ball gently, deepthroating until my nose touched his trimmed pubes. He moaned my name like a prayer.
When neither could wait anymore, I climbed on top in 69, his tongue in my chut while I sucked him hungrily. We came together that way — him shooting down my throat, me squirting lightly on his face.
After, we didn’t stop. He flipped me, entered missionary slow and deep, our sweat-slick bodies sliding together. We kissed endlessly, his hands never leaving my chuchi, pinching nipples until they ached deliciously.
“Tell me what you are,” he whispered against my ear.
“Teri randi bhabhi,” I gasped. “Sirf teri.”
He sped up, pounding until the bed shook. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back. When he came, he pushed as deep as possible, filling me again. We stayed connected, breathing together.
Riskiest moment came during a family wedding. We were all staying at a relative’s farmhouse. Rooms were shared, privacy zero. But at 3 AM, when everyone slept off the drinking and dancing, Rohan texted: “Backyard. Behind the shed.”
I slipped out in just a robe. He was waiting, pushed me against the wall, lifted my leg, and entered standing. The cool night air on my skin, danger of someone waking — it made me cum harder than ever. He covered my mouth as I screamed into his palm.
We’ve filmed some sessions too — on his phone, me riding him, boobs bouncing, calling him “devar ji” while begging for harder chudai. We watch them together later, fucking again to our own porn.
Bhaiya suspects nothing. He even praises how “happy and glowing” I look lately. If only he knew it’s his younger brother’s cum keeping me satisfied.
I’ve become bolder. Sometimes I flash Rohan during family time — bending low to serve food, letting him see I’m not wearing bra, or texting him nudes from the bathroom while dinner is served downstairs.
He returns the favor — sending dick pics when he’s in meetings, making me wet during pooja.
Our story has no end in sight. As long as we live under the same roof, this bhabhi will remain her devar’s secret slut, craving his thick lund every single day.
And when Bhaiya finally takes me at night, I close my eyes and pretend it’s Rohan — rough, passionate, insatiable.
Because that’s the only way this horny housewife can survive.
I know I shouldn’t think this way, but ever since Rohan moved back home after college, I’ve caught him staring. At my deep cleavage when I wear low-cut blouses with my sarees, at my round gaand when I bend to pick something up, at my heavy 36DD chuchi that sway even under loose nighties. Bhaiya (Vikram) is loving but boring in bed — quick, mechanical, lights off, missionary only. He cums in five minutes and rolls over. I’ve been starving for real passion, for someone to worship my body like it deserves.
It started innocently enough during last year’s Diwali preparations. The whole family was busy decorating, and I was in the kitchen making sweets, draped in a red silk saree that hugged my curves perfectly. The pallu kept slipping, revealing the deep valley between my big boobs. Rohan came in to help, wearing just a tight t-shirt and track pants. I noticed the outline of his lund immediately — thick and long even when soft.
“Bhabhi, aapko help chahiye?” he asked, voice low, standing closer than necessary.
I smiled. “Haan Rohan, yeh besan mix kar do.”
As he stirred, his arm brushed my waist. Electricity shot through me. I didn’t move away. Instead, I leaned forward to reach a spice jar, letting my pallu fall completely. My blouse was low-cut, black lace bra peeking out, creamy chuchi almost spilling.
He froze, staring openly. “Bhabhi… aapki… blouse…”
I pretended to adjust it slowly, giving him a full view. “Kya hua? Kuch galat hai kya?”
His face turned red, but his eyes were hungry. “Nahi bhabhi… bilkul perfect hai.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Bhaiya was snoring beside me after his usual quick session. I touched myself thinking of Rohan’s gaze, imagining his strong hands on my boobs, his mouth sucking my nipples. My chut was dripping.
The next day, Bhaiya left for a week-long tour. Perfect opportunity. The house was busy with relatives, but afternoons were quiet when everyone napped. I called Rohan to my room on the pretext of helping fix the AC remote.
He came in hesitantly, wearing shorts. I was in a thin cotton nightie, no bra, nipples clearly visible. The room was warm, fan slow.
“Rohan, yahan baitho,” I patted the bed beside me.
He sat, eyes on my thighs where the nightie had ridden up. I turned towards him, letting one strap slip off my shoulder, exposing half my left boob.
“Bhabhi… yeh…” he stammered.
I placed my hand on his thigh. “Rohan, mujhe pata hai tu mujhe kaise dekhta hai. Mujhe bhi achha lagta hai.”
He looked shocked but didn’t pull away. I moved my hand higher, brushing his now-hard lund through the shorts. It twitched, growing instantly.
“Bhabhi… yeh galat hai… Bhaiya…”
“Shhh,” I whispered, leaning in. “Bhaiya ko pata nahi chalega. Bas humara secret.”
I kissed him softly at first. He hesitated, then responded hungrily, his tongue pushing into my mouth. His hands finally grabbed my big chuchi, squeezing hard over the nightie. I moaned into his kiss.
He pulled the nightie down, freeing my heavy boobs. They bounced out, dark nipples erect. “Bhabhi ki itni badi aur juicy chuchi,” he groaned, burying his face between them. He sucked one nipple hard, biting gently, while pinching the other. I arched my back, fingers in his hair.
“Choos zor se, Rohan… teri bhabhi ki chuchi ko maar daal.”
He obeyed, switching sides, leaving wet marks and red bites. His free hand slid under my nightie, finding my panty-less chut already soaked.
“Bhabhi… aap bina panty ke… kitni garam ho.”
He rubbed my clit roughly, two fingers pushing inside easily. I bucked against his hand, cumming quickly — my first real orgasm in months.
Then I pushed him back, pulling off his shorts. His lund sprang free — thicker and longer than Bhaiya’s, at least 9 inches, veiny, head glistening. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly.
“Devar ji ka itna mota lund,” I purred. “Aaj teri bhabhi isko taste karegi.”
I knelt between his legs, taking the head into my mouth. He groaned loudly as I swirled my tongue, sucking deeper, taking half his length. I gagged a little but kept going, bobbing my head, saliva dripping. He held my hair, guiding gently at first, then thrusting lightly.
“Bhabhi… aap randi ho… itna achha choosti ho.”
Hearing that word made me wetter. I sucked harder, fondling his heavy balls, until he warned he was close. I pulled off and climbed on top, straddling him.
“Aaj teri bhabhi tujhe apni chut degi.”
I guided his thick lund to my entrance and sank down slowly. It stretched me deliciously, filling me completely. I started riding, slow at first, then faster, my big boobs bouncing wildly. He grabbed them, squeezing as I ground my clit against him.
“Chod mujhe Rohan… zor se… bana de mujhe apni randi.”
He flipped me over suddenly, putting me on all fours. From behind, he slammed in deep, pounding hard. His balls slapped my ass, hands spanking my gaand red. I buried my face in the pillow to muffle screams.
We came together — me clenching around him, him flooding my chut with hot cum. He stayed inside, kissing my back.
From that day, we became addicts. Every afternoon when the house slept, Rohan would sneak into my room. He’d fuck me in different positions — missionary with my legs over his shoulders, doggy while pulling my hair, me riding reverse cowgirl so he could watch my ass bounce.
He loved my boobs. One session, he made me kneel and tit-fuck him, his lund sliding between my oily chuchi until he came all over my neck and cleavage. I licked it clean.
Riskiest was in the kitchen. One evening, everyone was watching TV in the hall. I was washing dishes, bent over the sink in a short kurti. Rohan came behind me, lifted my kurti, pulled my leggings down, and entered me from behind quickly. He fucked fast and hard, one hand over my mouth, the other rubbing my clit. We both came silently, his cum dripping down my thighs as I finished dishes.
Another time on the terrace at night. Stars above, city lights below. He laid me on an old mattress, ate my chut for half an hour until I came twice on his tongue, then fucked me slow and deep under the open sky. “Bhabhi, main aapko pregnant kar dunga,” he whispered while cumming inside.
I started dressing sexier for him — deep neck blouses showing maximum cleavage, transparent sarees, tight salwar kameez hugging my curves. At family dinners, he’d sit opposite, staring down my blouse while I teased by adjusting my pallu slowly.
During Holi, when everyone was drunk on bhang and colors, we snuck to the store room. Covered in gulal, he ripped my wet white saree off, fucked me against sacks of flour, my red chuchi smeared with colors, his lund painted pink.
Bhaiya came back from tours oblivious. Sometimes he’d want sex, and I’d let him, but my mind was on Rohan’s thicker lund. Once, right after Bhaiya fucked me missionary and fell asleep, Rohan texted. I went to his room, still leaking Bhaiya’s cum, and Rohan fucked me harder, calling me his cheating randi bhabhi.
He introduced new things. Bought toys online — a vibrator he used on my clit while fucking my ass for the first time. Anal was painful initially, but now I crave it. He trained me to take his whole length in my gaand, cumming deep inside while fingering my chut.
We even did roleplay. I’d dress as a maid, call him “Saab” while he “punished” me for bad work by spanking and fucking. Or I’d be the dominant bhabhi ordering my devar to lick my feet and chut before allowing him inside.
Months turned into a year. Bhaiya got promoted, more travel. Rohan got a job but still lived home. Our secret continued — quickies in the bathroom during family functions, blowjobs in the car when we went shopping, full nights when Bhaiya was away.
Sometimes guilt hits. “Rohan, humein rukna chahiye,” I’d say after a particularly intense session.
But he’d just pull me close, suck my nipples until I begged for his lund again.
I know it’s cheating, taboo in our conservative family. If caught, everything would shatter. But the thrill, the passion, the way he makes my body sing — it’s worth every risk.
Now, whenever I see Rohan across the dinner table, smiling innocently at elders while his foot slides up my leg under the table, I know later he’ll be balls-deep in his bhabhi’s chut, turning me into his personal randi once more.
This forbidden devar-bhabhi chudai has ruined me for normal sex forever. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The afternoons became our sacred ritual. The house would fall into that heavy post-lunch silence — Sasurji snoring in his recliner, Nanad busy with her phone, kids at tuition. I’d send Rohan a simple WhatsApp: “Upstairs. Now.” He’d appear within minutes, locking the door softly behind him.
One particularly hot May afternoon stands out. The power was out again, ceiling fan useless. I waited naked on the bed, only a mangalsutra around my neck, lying between my heavy breasts. When he entered, eyes widening at the sight, I crooked a finger.
“Come worship your bhabhi properly.”
He stripped quickly, his muscular body glistening with sweat. Starting at my feet, he kissed up my calves, thighs, lingering at my inner thighs before reaching my shaved chut. He spread my lips with his thumbs and licked slowly, savoring every drop. I guided his head, grinding against his tongue until I flooded his mouth.
Then I returned the favor. I pushed him onto his back and took my time — licking his shaft from balls to tip, sucking each ball gently, deepthroating until my nose touched his trimmed pubes. He moaned my name like a prayer.
When neither could wait anymore, I climbed on top in 69, his tongue in my chut while I sucked him hungrily. We came together that way — him shooting down my throat, me squirting lightly on his face.
After, we didn’t stop. He flipped me, entered missionary slow and deep, our sweat-slick bodies sliding together. We kissed endlessly, his hands never leaving my chuchi, pinching nipples until they ached deliciously.
“Tell me what you are,” he whispered against my ear.
“Teri randi bhabhi,” I gasped. “Sirf teri.”
He sped up, pounding until the bed shook. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into his back. When he came, he pushed as deep as possible, filling me again. We stayed connected, breathing together.
Riskiest moment came during a family wedding. We were all staying at a relative’s farmhouse. Rooms were shared, privacy zero. But at 3 AM, when everyone slept off the drinking and dancing, Rohan texted: “Backyard. Behind the shed.”
I slipped out in just a robe. He was waiting, pushed me against the wall, lifted my leg, and entered standing. The cool night air on my skin, danger of someone waking — it made me cum harder than ever. He covered my mouth as I screamed into his palm.
We’ve filmed some sessions too — on his phone, me riding him, boobs bouncing, calling him “devar ji” while begging for harder chudai. We watch them together later, fucking again to our own porn.
Bhaiya suspects nothing. He even praises how “happy and glowing” I look lately. If only he knew it’s his younger brother’s cum keeping me satisfied.
I’ve become bolder. Sometimes I flash Rohan during family time — bending low to serve food, letting him see I’m not wearing bra, or texting him nudes from the bathroom while dinner is served downstairs.
He returns the favor — sending dick pics when he’s in meetings, making me wet during pooja.
Our story has no end in sight. As long as we live under the same roof, this bhabhi will remain her devar’s secret slut, craving his thick lund every single day.
And when Bhaiya finally takes me at night, I close my eyes and pretend it’s Rohan — rough, passionate, insatiable.
Because that’s the only way this horny housewife can survive.