The afternoon sun bleeds through the half-drawn curtains, painting my room in lazy streaks of gold. The scent of jasmine from the garden downstairs seeps in, thick and sweet, mixing with the faint musk of sweat on my skin. I'm sprawled on my bed, shirtless, just in a pair of loose cotton shorts, my laptop balanced on my stomach as I scroll through some random shit online. My mind's not really on the screen, though. It's been gnawing at me for days—weeks, even—ever since I found those condoms tucked into Ayansh bhaiya's office bag like he was some fucking teenager sneaking around.
I shouldn't have snooped. But I did. And what I saw on his phone after that—those messages, those pictures—it turned my stomach. My own brother, married to Aratrika bhabhi for less than a year, already fucking around with other women. And not just one. Multiple. The worst part? Everyone thinks he's this devoted husband, this golden boy who landed a rich, beautiful wife. But I know the truth. He married her for the money, for the connections, for the fucking lifestyle. And bhabhi—she's just… stuck with him.
A soft knock on my door jolts me out of my thoughts. I sit up, adjusting my shorts just as the door creaks open. My breath catches.
Aratrika bhabhi stands there, framed by the dim light of the hallway. She's in a pink saree today, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that makes my throat go dry. The blouse is snug, the swell of her breasts pressing against the silk, and the pallu drapes just low enough to tease the dip of her waist. Her dark hair is loose, falling over one shoulder, and her lips—fuck, her lips are slightly parted, like she's already thinking about something she shouldn't be.
"Ishan," she says, her voice low, almost a purr. "Are you busy?"
I swallow hard. "N-no, bhabhi. Just… you know, nothing important."
She steps inside, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. The room suddenly feels smaller. The air heavier. My pulse kicks up, hammering in my ears as she moves closer, the scent of roses—her new shampoo, probably—filling my senses. She stops right in front of me, close enough that I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her nipples press against the fabric of her blouse.
Then she says it.
"Do you want to taste my pussy, Ishan?"
My brain short-circuits. For a second, I'm sure I misheard her. But the way she's looking at me—dark, hungry eyes locked onto mine—tells me I didn't. My cock twitches, already half-hard in my shorts.
"Bhabhi, what—what are you saying?" I stammer, but my voice cracks, betraying me.
She smirks, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me. "I'm not getting any pleasure from your brother," she admits, stepping even closer. Her fingers trail up my arm, sending a jolt straight to my groin. "He avoids me at night. He's never there. I need a man's touch, Ishan. And you're a man now, aren't you?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I should stop this. I should. But the way her hand slides up my chest, her nails grazing over my skin, makes my muscles tense. My cock is fully hard now, straining against my shorts, and when her palm presses against it, I let out a sharp breath.
"You're so big," she murmurs, her fingers tracing the outline of my dick through the fabric. "Thicker than Ayansh's. I bet you'd feel so good inside me."
That's it. That's the moment I lose whatever shred of control I had left.
I grab her, my hands gripping her waist, pulling her against me. She gasps, but it's not protest—it's encouragement. Her breath hitches as I yank the pallu of her saree aside, exposing the smooth skin of her shoulder. The blouse is next, my fingers fumbling with the hooks at the back until it loosens, spilling her breasts free. Fuck, they're perfect—full, heavy, the nipples dark and already hard.
"Bhabhi—" I groan, my mouth crashing onto hers.
She kisses me back like she's starving for it, her tongue sliding against mine, wet and hot. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and I can taste the faint sweetness of the mishri she must've had after lunch. I break the kiss only to drag my lips down her neck, biting at the sensitive skin there, earning a moan that goes straight to my cock.
I don't stop there.
I drop to my knees in front of her, my hands sliding up her legs, pushing the saree higher until I can see the lace of her panties. Fuck, she's already wet—there's a dark spot right in the center, the fabric clinging to her pussy. I press my face against her thigh, inhaling deeply. Roses, sweat, and something musky, her—it's intoxicating.
"Your feet first," I growl, my voice rough. "I want to worship all of you."
She shivers as I take her left foot in my hands, pressing my lips to her ankle, then the arch, then the pads of her toes. Her skin is soft, warm, and I can feel her pulse fluttering under my tongue as I lick a slow path up her calf. Her fingers tighten in my hair when I reach the back of her knee, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
"Oh god—" she whimpers, her voice trembling.
I don't stop. I move to her other leg, repeating the process, my hands sliding up to squeeze her ass through the saree. Then I'm pulling her panties down, helping her step out of them, and fuck—she's bare. No landing strip, no trim, just smooth, glistening skin, her pussy lips already swollen and slick.
I groan, my cock throbbing painfully, but I don't touch it. Not yet.
First, I bury my face between her thighs.
The first lick is slow, deliberate, my tongue dragging from her entrance up to her clit. She tastes amazing—sweet and salty, her arousal coating my lips as I press deeper, my tongue flicking against her clit before I suck it into my mouth.
"Ishan!" she cries, her hips jerking forward, her fingers gripping my hair so tight it borders on pain.
I don't care. I lick her like a man possessed, my tongue spearing into her tight hole, fucking her with it while my thumb circles her clit. She's soaking wet, her juices dripping down my chin, and the sounds she's making—whimpers, moans, my name—they're driving me fucking wild.
But I need more.
I stand abruptly, my hands going to my shorts. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted as she watches me shove them down, my cock springing free. It's thick, veiny, the head already leaking pre-cum, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she stares at it.
"You're huge," she breathes, reaching out to wrap her fingers around my shaft.
I hiss at the contact, my hips jerking forward instinctively. "Suck it," I demand, my voice rough. "I want to see those pretty lips stretched around my cock."
She doesn't hesitate. She sinks to her knees in front of me, her hands gripping the base of my cock as she leans in, her tongue swirling around the head before she takes me into her mouth.
"Fuck—" I groan, my head falling back as her lips seal around my shaft, her tongue working the underside. She takes me deeper, her throat opening for me, and I can't resist—my hands tangle in her hair, guiding her, fucking her mouth in slow, deep thrusts.
She gags once, twice, but she doesn't pull back. Instead, she hollows her cheeks, taking me all the way to the back of her throat, her nose pressing against my pelvis. The sight of her like this—on her knees, my cock buried in her throat, her eyes watering but her hands still gripping my ass like she never wants to let go—it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
I pull back just enough to let her breathe, my cock glistening with her saliva. "You're such a good little slut for me, bhabhi," I growl, my thumb brushing over her swollen lips. "Now get on the bed. I'm gonna fuck that tight pussy raw."
She obeys instantly, crawling onto my bed, her saree still half-draped around her, her tits bouncing with every movement. I follow, kneeling between her legs, my cock twitching as I line it up with her entrance.
She's dripping. So wet I can see her juices coating her thighs, her pussy clenching like it's begging for me. I spit on my palm and stroke my cock, then press the head against her, watching as her lips part around me.
And then I push in.
"Fuck!" she screams, her back arching off the bed, her nails raking down my arms.
She's tight—so fucking tight it's almost painful, her walls clamping down around me like a vise. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to go slow, but the way she's whimpering, the way her pussy is milking my cock, it's too much.
I slam into her, bottoming out in one rough thrust.
"Ishan! It hurts—!" she sobs, but her legs wrap around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper.
The pain in her voice, the way her pussy is strangling my cock—it's too much. I lose it. I start fucking her, my hips snapping forward, my balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. The bed creaks under us, the headboard banging against the wall, but I don't care. All I can focus on is the way her tits bounce with every movement, the way her pussy is dripping around my cock, the way her nails are tearing into my skin.
"You're mine," I snarl, my lips crashing onto hers. "Say it. Say you're mine, bhabhi."
"Yours!" she cries, her tongue tangling with mine. "Only yours—!"
Her words send me over the edge. My orgasm hits me like a freight train, my cock swelling inside her as I bury myself to the hilt, my cum pumping into her in thick, hot spurts. She screams against my mouth, her pussy clenching around me, milking every last drop from my balls.
I collapse on top of her, my cock still twitching inside her, our sweat-slicked bodies pressed together. Her legs are still wrapped around me, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she clings to me.
And then she whispers it, her lips brushing my ear:
"Again."