The first time I heard her voice through the thin wall, it was past midnight and the house was dead quiet. My room was right next to hers, and the cheap Bluetooth speaker she used carried every filthy word straight to me. “Bhaiya, aur zor se… meri chut mein apna lund daal do,” she moaned in that low, breathy Hindi, the kind that sounded like it was made for secret recordings. I knew she recorded these audio stories for some shady app, selling “incest sex stories Hindi audio” to strangers who got off on exactly this. But hearing my own sister’s voice pretending to beg her brother to fuck her raw made my cock throb so hard it hurt.
I pressed my ear to the wall. She was recording again. “Haan bhaiya, didi ki gandi chut ko chod do. Main teri randi hoon.” Her words were wet, dirty, no romance, just straight filth. I could hear the slick sounds of her fingers working her pussy in time with the dirty talk. My hand was already down my shorts, stroking slow and rough, matching her rhythm. Every “bhaiya” she whispered made me imagine it was real, that she was on the other side of that wall calling for me instead of some anonymous listener.
The next night I didn’t even pretend. I opened her door without knocking. She was on her bed, legs spread, phone propped up, recording. Naked, tits bouncing with every thrust of her own fingers, nipples dark and tight. She froze when she saw me, but her pussy kept clenching visibly around nothing.
“Band kar woh recording,” I said, voice low and rough. “Ab asli mein karenge.”
She didn’t argue. She just licked her lips, hit stop, and crawled toward me on all fours like the slut she’d been role-playing. “Bhaiya,” she breathed, the same tone from the audio. “Mera muh mein le.”
I grabbed her hair and shoved my cock between her lips. She took it deep, gagging wet and loud, spit dripping down her chin onto her tits. No slow build-up. I fucked her throat hard, the way the audio customers probably wanted. She moaned around my shaft, one hand still rubbing her swollen clit. “Chod mujhe,” she gasped when I pulled out. “Jaldi se. Main bahut din se tadap rahi hoon.”
I flipped her onto her back, yanked her hips to the edge of the bed, and slammed inside her in one thrust. She was dripping, hot, tight. Her cunt gripped me like it had been waiting for this exact cock. I pounded her without mercy, skin slapping loud, her moans turning into the same filthy Hindi she used in the recordings.
“Bhaiya, meri chut phaad do… aur zor se… main teri personal randi hoon.” Every sentence she’d recorded came out of her mouth for real now. I reached down and slapped her clit the way she liked in the audios, and she came hard, squirting around my cock, soaking the sheets. I didn’t stop. I kept driving into her, watching her tits bounce, her face twisted in raw pleasure.
When I was close I pulled out and flipped her again, pushing her face into the mattress. I took her from behind, deeper, rougher, one hand fisting her hair. “Bol,” I growled. “Bol woh sab jo recording mein bolti hai.”
“Bhaiya, apna garam paani meri chut mein chhod do,” she begged, voice hoarse. “Mujhe pregnant kar do apne lund se.” That line from one of her stories pushed me over. I buried myself to the hilt and unloaded, thick pulses flooding her cunt while she clenched and came again around me.
We didn’t talk after. She just stayed on her stomach, cum leaking down her thighs, and reached for the phone again. She hit record.
“Bhaiya ne asli mein chod diya,” she whispered into the mic, voice still shaky.
“Ab yeh meri asli incest sex story hai.”
I was already getting hard again listening to her describe it for the audio. This time I’d be right there while she recorded the next part.
