My name is Ajay Sharma, and I'm 28 years old, working as a marketing executive in a bustling firm in Kolkata. Life was pretty routine—married to Rina for two years, living in our cozy two-bedroom flat near Salt Lake, with weekends spent on Netflix binges or family dinners. Rina was sweet, a 27-year-old accountant with a gentle nature, but our sex life had cooled off after the honeymoon phase, bogged down by work stress and city life. Then, Priya entered the picture—Rina's younger sister, 25, fresh from completing her MBA in Bangalore, coming to stay with us for a month while she hunted for jobs in Kolkata. Priya was the opposite of Rina: bold, outgoing, with a wicked sense of humor and a body that could stop traffic. She had long straight hair with trendy highlights, cat-like green eyes that sparkled with mischief, full lips always curved in a teasing smile, and curves for days—36DD breasts that bounced enticingly under her crop tops, a tiny waist accentuated by high-waisted jeans, flaring hips, and a perky, round ass that jiggled just right in her short skirts or yoga shorts. She dressed to kill at home, often "forgetting" a bra, her nipples poking through thin fabrics in the humid Kolkata weather.
At first, her stay was fun—Priya brought energy to the flat, cooking spicy South Indian dishes, blasting Bollywood music, and chatting late into the night. Rina worked late shifts at her call center three nights a week, leaving Priya and me alone for dinners. That's when the flirting started subtly. "Jijaji, aap itne handsome ho, didi ko jealous feel hota hoga office ki ladkiyon se," she'd say with a wink, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in a tank top that barely contained her massive boobs, her shorts riding up to show smooth thighs. I'd laugh it off, but my eyes would wander, and she'd catch me, biting her lip playfully. "Kya dekh rahe ho, jiju? Kuch pasand aaya?"
The temptation built over days. Mornings: she'd do yoga in the living room, downward dog position thrusting her ass up, the outline of her panties visible through thin leggings. I'd pretend to read the newspaper from the kitchen, but my cock would twitch. Afternoons: "accidental" walks in on me post-shower, towel around waist, her eyes lingering on my chest. "Oops, sorry jijaji... but wow, gym jaate ho kya?" Evenings alone: sharing beer on the balcony, her hand brushing my knee as she laughed at my jokes, leaning in so her cleavage was inches from my face.
One humid Tuesday night, Rina called from work—delayed till midnight due to a system crash. Priya and I had dinner—pasta she'd made, wine flowing. We moved to the sofa for a movie, some steamy thriller. Halfway through a love scene, she shifted closer, head on my shoulder, hand resting high on my thigh. "Jijaji, aapki shaadi mein main jealous thi... didi ko aisa hot husband mila." Her fingers traced circles, inching toward my growing bulge. I froze, heart pounding. "Priya... yeh nahi kar sakte, teri didi..."
But she looked up, eyes dark with lust. "Didi ko pata nahi chalega... sirf ek baar, please jiju." She kissed me—soft at first, then hungry, tongue slipping in as she climbed onto my lap, grinding her ass against my hard cock. Guilt surged, but desire won. I kissed back fiercely, hands roaming under her top to cup those enormous tits—soft yet firm, overflowing my palms, nipples rock hard. "Ahhh... chhu lo jijaji... zor se dabao," she moaned, arching.
I yanked her top off, burying my face in her cleavage, sucking one nipple while pinching the other. She writhed, "Chooso... bite karo... haan aise!" Her skin tasted salty from sweat, scent musky and arousing. She slid down, unzipping my pants, gasping at my thick 7.5-inch cock. "Jiju ka lund... didi lucky hai... muh mein le lun?" She blew me like a pro—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling, deepthroating with gags, hand pumping the base, saliva dripping. I held her hair, thrusting gently.
I couldn't take more. I laid her on the sofa, pulling off her shorts—no panties, shaved pussy dripping. "Geeli ho gayi sali... jiju ke liye?" I teased, rubbing her clit. Fingers slid in easily; she bucked, "Ungli se chodo... ahhh!" I ate her out—long licks, sucking clit, tongue-fucking her hole until she came, thighs clamping, juices flooding my mouth.
I entered her missionary—slow push into her tight heat. "Chod mujhe jijaji... apni sali ko thok!" We fucked wildly—her legs wrapped around, nails raking my back; cowgirl with her bouncing tits in my face; doggy where I spanked her ass red, pulling hair as it jiggled. She came thrice, pussy milking me. "Andar daal jiju... creampie kar do sali ke andar!" I exploded deep inside.
Post-orgasm guilt hit, but Priya cuddled, "Yeh hamara secret hai." The affair exploded. Mornings: quick blowjobs in the shower while Rina slept. Afternoons: she'd visit my office for "lunch," car sex in parking lot. Nights Rina worked: marathon sessions—oiled bodies, anal (her first, loving the pain-pleasure), role-play as boss-secretary. Emotional layers—her confessing crush since wedding, me admitting Rina's neglect fueled it. Guilt ate me, but addiction stronger. Priya got a job, moved out, but we meet hotels, our forbidden fire unending.
At first, her stay was fun—Priya brought energy to the flat, cooking spicy South Indian dishes, blasting Bollywood music, and chatting late into the night. Rina worked late shifts at her call center three nights a week, leaving Priya and me alone for dinners. That's when the flirting started subtly. "Jijaji, aap itne handsome ho, didi ko jealous feel hota hoga office ki ladkiyon se," she'd say with a wink, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in a tank top that barely contained her massive boobs, her shorts riding up to show smooth thighs. I'd laugh it off, but my eyes would wander, and she'd catch me, biting her lip playfully. "Kya dekh rahe ho, jiju? Kuch pasand aaya?"
The temptation built over days. Mornings: she'd do yoga in the living room, downward dog position thrusting her ass up, the outline of her panties visible through thin leggings. I'd pretend to read the newspaper from the kitchen, but my cock would twitch. Afternoons: "accidental" walks in on me post-shower, towel around waist, her eyes lingering on my chest. "Oops, sorry jijaji... but wow, gym jaate ho kya?" Evenings alone: sharing beer on the balcony, her hand brushing my knee as she laughed at my jokes, leaning in so her cleavage was inches from my face.
One humid Tuesday night, Rina called from work—delayed till midnight due to a system crash. Priya and I had dinner—pasta she'd made, wine flowing. We moved to the sofa for a movie, some steamy thriller. Halfway through a love scene, she shifted closer, head on my shoulder, hand resting high on my thigh. "Jijaji, aapki shaadi mein main jealous thi... didi ko aisa hot husband mila." Her fingers traced circles, inching toward my growing bulge. I froze, heart pounding. "Priya... yeh nahi kar sakte, teri didi..."
But she looked up, eyes dark with lust. "Didi ko pata nahi chalega... sirf ek baar, please jiju." She kissed me—soft at first, then hungry, tongue slipping in as she climbed onto my lap, grinding her ass against my hard cock. Guilt surged, but desire won. I kissed back fiercely, hands roaming under her top to cup those enormous tits—soft yet firm, overflowing my palms, nipples rock hard. "Ahhh... chhu lo jijaji... zor se dabao," she moaned, arching.
I yanked her top off, burying my face in her cleavage, sucking one nipple while pinching the other. She writhed, "Chooso... bite karo... haan aise!" Her skin tasted salty from sweat, scent musky and arousing. She slid down, unzipping my pants, gasping at my thick 7.5-inch cock. "Jiju ka lund... didi lucky hai... muh mein le lun?" She blew me like a pro—lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling, deepthroating with gags, hand pumping the base, saliva dripping. I held her hair, thrusting gently.
I couldn't take more. I laid her on the sofa, pulling off her shorts—no panties, shaved pussy dripping. "Geeli ho gayi sali... jiju ke liye?" I teased, rubbing her clit. Fingers slid in easily; she bucked, "Ungli se chodo... ahhh!" I ate her out—long licks, sucking clit, tongue-fucking her hole until she came, thighs clamping, juices flooding my mouth.
I entered her missionary—slow push into her tight heat. "Chod mujhe jijaji... apni sali ko thok!" We fucked wildly—her legs wrapped around, nails raking my back; cowgirl with her bouncing tits in my face; doggy where I spanked her ass red, pulling hair as it jiggled. She came thrice, pussy milking me. "Andar daal jiju... creampie kar do sali ke andar!" I exploded deep inside.
Post-orgasm guilt hit, but Priya cuddled, "Yeh hamara secret hai." The affair exploded. Mornings: quick blowjobs in the shower while Rina slept. Afternoons: she'd visit my office for "lunch," car sex in parking lot. Nights Rina worked: marathon sessions—oiled bodies, anal (her first, loving the pain-pleasure), role-play as boss-secretary. Emotional layers—her confessing crush since wedding, me admitting Rina's neglect fueled it. Guilt ate me, but addiction stronger. Priya got a job, moved out, but we meet hotels, our forbidden fire unending.