Ramesh uncle had been staring at my ass for weeks. Every time I bent over to pick up something in the kitchen, his eyes locked on my curves like he wanted to eat me alive. I was 28, married to his son for three years, and my husband was always away on work. The house felt empty except for the heat building between me and my sasur.
One humid afternoon I walked out of the shower in a thin towel. Ramesh was sitting on the couch pretending to read the paper. His gaze dropped straight to my wet thighs. I didn’t cover up. I let the towel slip just enough to show the curve of one heavy breast.
“Bah u,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’re killing me walking around like that.”
I dropped the towel completely. “Then stop looking and do something about it, sasurji.”
He stood up fast for a man his age. Big hands grabbed my waist and pulled me against him. His cock was already hard, pressing against my belly through his thin pajamas. He spun me around, bent me over the arm of the couch, and spread my ass cheeks with both hands.
“Fuck, look at this choot,” he growled. “Already dripping for your sasur’s lund.”
He didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers shoved straight into my pussy, pumping hard. I moaned loud, pushing back on his hand. He finger-fucked me rough and fast until my juices ran down his wrist. Then he pulled his pajamas down and slapped his fat cock against my ass.
“Beg for it,” he ordered.
“Give me that cock, sasur. Fuck your bahu’s wet choot.”
He slammed in deep on the first thrust. No slow start, just hard, dirty pounding. His balls slapped my clit with every stroke. I gripped the couch cushions and took it, crying out every time he bottomed out. He reached around and pinched my nipples hard while he fucked me.
“Such a tight little bahu cunt,” he grunted. “Been wanting to stretch this since the wedding day.”
He pulled out, flipped me onto my back on the floor, and shoved back inside. My legs went over his shoulders. He fucked me like he hated me, hips snapping, sweat dripping off his chest onto my tits. I came hard, pussy clenching around him, but he didn’t stop.
“Again,” he demanded. “Squirt on sasur’s cock.”
He rubbed my swollen clit with his thumb while pounding me. I exploded, hot liquid gushing out around his thick shaft. He laughed low and dirty, then pulled out and pushed my thighs wider.
“Open that mouth.”
I sucked him clean, tasting my own cum. He held my head and fucked my throat until tears ran down my face. When he was close he pulled back, flipped me onto all fours again, and drove back into my pussy.
“Gonna fill this choot,” he warned.
He came with a long groan, pumping thick ropes of hot cum deep inside me. I felt every pulse. When he finally pulled out, his load leaked down my thighs.
We didn’t stop there. He dragged me to his bedroom, made me ride him while he sucked my tits, then bent me over the bed and took my ass with spit and more cum. By nightfall I was sore, covered in his marks, and already craving the next round.
Every afternoon after that, when my husband was gone, I went to Ramesh. Sometimes he ate my pussy for an hour until I screamed. Sometimes he just bent me over whatever was closest and used me hard.
The forbidden thrill never faded. I was his dirty bahu, and my choot stayed thirsty for sasur’s cock.
