I never planned to record those audios. It started as a dare from my cousin Rahul after too many drinks one humid Mumbai night. We were both twenty-five, stuck in the family flat while our parents were away, and he joked about how popular those Hindi incest voice stories were online. "Bhai-behen wali, full desi style," he said, laughing. But the way his eyes lingered on me changed everything.
We set up the old microphone in my bedroom, door locked, fan whirring overhead. I wore a thin cotton nightie, nothing underneath, and Rahul sat across from me in just his shorts. We scripted a simple scene: a sister confessing her hunger for her older brother. My voice came out low and shaky at first. "Bhaiya, aaj raat main aapke liye wait kar rahi thi…" The words felt forbidden on my tongue, thick with our shared dialect. Rahul's breathing grew heavy as he responded in character, his voice deeper, guiding me.
The first recording lasted twenty minutes. By the end my thighs were slick, and I could see the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. We played it back. Hearing my own Hindi moans describing how I wanted my brother's thick lund inside me made my nipples tighten visibly through the nightie. Rahul didn't hide his stare. "Fuck, didi," he whispered, breaking character. That single word snapped the last thread.
I crawled over to him on the bed. My hand went straight to his shorts, freeing his heavy cock. It was hot and already leaking. I wrapped my fingers around it and stroked slowly while I kept talking into the mic, continuing the story in Hindi. "Bhaiya, aapka lund kitna bada hai… behen ko chod do." Rahul groaned and pulled the nightie off my shoulders. His mouth closed over one breast, sucking hard, teeth grazing the nipple. I kept recording, describing every sensation in filthy Hindi as his fingers slid between my legs and found me dripping.
He pushed two fingers inside me without warning. I gasped into the microphone, the wet sounds loud in the small room. "Dekho bhaiya, meri chut kitni geeli ho gayi hai aapke liye." Rahul curled his fingers, rubbing that spot that made my hips jerk. I came hard, thighs shaking, voice breaking on the dirty words. Before I could catch my breath he flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up, and drove his cock into me in one long thrust.
The recording caught everything: skin slapping, my moans turning into desperate pleas in Hindi, Rahul grunting "Behenchod, kitni tight hai tu" as he fucked me deep. He reached around to rub my clit in tight circles. I came again, walls pulsing around him, and he followed right after, flooding me with hot spurts while I kept whispering filthy encouragements into the mic.
We didn't stop there. Over the next nights we made more recordings. Sometimes I narrated while he ate me out, his tongue fucking my cunt as I described the scene in soft, urgent Hindi. Other times he took me from behind while I held the mic close, capturing every squelch and slap. The stories grew longer, more detailed: the sister begging her brother to cum inside her, to breed her, to claim her completely.
Each session ended with us tangled together, sweaty and spent, listening to the playback and getting worked up all over again.
By the fourth recording I was riding him reverse, facing the mic, my voice steady even as his cock stretched me open. "Bhaiya, aapka garam paani meri chut mein bhar do." He gripped my hips and thrust up hard, making me scream the final lines as he pumped another load deep inside. We left the file running, the room filled with our ragged breathing and the quiet drip of his cum leaking out of me.
Those audios never went online. They stayed on my laptop, a private collection we still listen to sometimes when the house is empty. Every time I hear my own Hindi voice describing the forbidden, I end up on my knees or on my back, taking my brother's cock all over again. The recordings keep growing longer, and so does the hunger.
