Adultery Aunty's surrender: The nephew's conquest

[Praju69]

Nill typo mistake error nill

[Praju69]

This is the real incident happened in my life and still happening i want to share my  first story here. support and give me your reviews please.

Here’s a brief overview of all the main characters in the story:

- **Yash** (25 years old)  
  The central antagonist and driving force of the narrative. A handsome, muscular, confident young man with a large donkey sized cock and a reputation as a skilled "fuck boy." Charismatic, calculating, and manipulative, he moves into his aunt and uncle's home under the pretext of job hunting. He meticulously plans and executes the seduction of his aunt, turning her into his secret lover while dominating and humiliating the family.

- **Usha Rani (Usha)** (38 years old looks like natasha nice )  
  Praju's mother and Kumar's wife. A voluptuous, curvaceous, traditionally beautiful Indian woman who is devoted to her family and marriage. She starts as a loving, dutiful housewife but becomes overwhelmed by loneliness due to her husband's frequent absences. Yashu awakens long-suppressed desires in her, leading to an intense, guilt-ridden affair filled with escalating sexual acts. Her internal conflict is profound—she is torn between shame, self-loathing, maternal love, marital loyalty, and uncontrollable lust.

- **Praju** (timid boy)  
  Usha and Kumar's only son, a quiet, studious high college student focused on academics and exams. Initially innocent and family-oriented, his accidental discovery of his mother’s affair shatters his world. He experiences intense emotional turmoil—shock, betrayal, anger, guilt, unwanted arousal, and humiliation.

- **Kumar** (early 50s)  
  Usha’s husband and Praju’s father. A hardworking, reliable businessman who is frequently away on work trips. He is portrayed as kind, trusting, and oblivious to the betrayal occurring in his own home. He represents the stable but emotionally distant husband whose absence creates the void Yashu exploits. Kumar remains unaware of the affair and the family’s destruction throughout the story.

These four characters form the complete cast of the narrative, with their interactions driving the themes of seduction, betrayal, manipulation, guilt, and taboo family ruin.

[sarit11]

my dear writer

no need to open multiple threads

once the thread is approved , you will see it in the section

[Praju69]

For reference this is how my mom look alike

[Praju69]

My father kumar

[Praju69]

Yash nearly looks like this

[Uvaaaa]

Nice start update soon

[Praju69]

The slow seduction of Usha began innocently enough, masked as familial help and concern, but Yash orchestrated every moment with the precision of a hunter who already knew his prey would fall.

Yash arrived to his aunt Usha rani home one humid evening in late February suitcase in hand, claiming he was "between jobs" and needed a place to stay while he "sorted things out." Kumar, ever the trusting uncle, welcomed him warmly—clapping him on the back, insisting he take the spare room. Usha prepared a simple but hearty dinner: dal, roti, aloo sabzi, and fresh curd. As she served, Yash's eyes lingered—subtly at first—on the way her simple cotton saree dbangd over her voluptuous curves, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal the deep valley of her cleavage when she bent to place plates.

"Thank you, Aunty," he said softly, voice low and warm, meeting her eyes a second longer than necessary. "You've always taken such good care of family."

Usha smiled modestly, cheeks warming under his gaze, brushing it off as nephewly affection. But the seed was planted.

Over the next few days, Yash made himself useful—fixing the flickering tube light in the kitchen, helping Praju with his math homework (showing off his sharp mind), and quietly observing Usha's routine. He noticed how Kumar left early for work trips, how Usha's shoulders sagged slightly when she was alone, how she hummed old Bollywood songs while washing dishes, hips swaying unconsciously.

He started small compliments, casual and seemingly harmless.

One morning while she made chai: "Aunty, you look so fresh even after waking up early. Kumar uncle is lucky."

Usha laughed it off, but her hand trembled slightly as she poured the tea.

Evenings, when Kumar was away, Yash would sit in the living room scrolling his phone, shirt sleeves rolled up to show veined forearms, occasionally stretching so his t-shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of toned abs. Usha would glance—then quickly look away, busying herself with folding laundry.

He escalated touch by touch.

Helping her reach a high shelf in the kitchen, his chest brushed her back; his hand steadied her waist for "balance," fingers lingering a heartbeat too long on the soft curve above her saree. "Careful, Aunty," he murmured close to her ear, breath warm.

She froze, pulse quickening, but said nothing—attributing it to clumsiness.

One rainy afternoon, power cut, the house dim and humid. Praju at tuition, Kumar on a call in the bedroom. Yash and Usha alone in the hall. He "helped" her light candles, standing close as she struck a match. When wax dripped on her finger, he took her hand gently, blowing on it, thumb stroking the soft skin.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, eyes dark.

Usha's breath hitched. "No... it's fine, beta."

But she didn't pull away immediately.

He began leaving small gifts: a packet of her favorite jasmine incense, a bottle of rose attar ("It suits you, Aunty—makes the house smell like you"). Each time she accepted with shy thanks, her fingers brushing his.

Nights grew harder for her. Alone in bed beside snoring Kumar, she found herself replaying his touches, his low voice, the way his eyes traced her body when he thought she wasn't looking. Her hand would drift between her thighs—guilt flooding her even as wetness gathered. She came quietly, biting her lip, imagining his strong hands instead of her own.

Yash sensed the shift.

One evening, Kumar away again, Praju studying in his room. Usha was in the kitchen rolling rotis. Yash entered quietly, leaning against the doorframe in a fitted t-shirt that clung to his muscular chest.

"Aunty... can I help?"

She nodded, flustered. He stepped behind her—close—reaching around to "adjust" the rolling pin in her hand. His body pressed lightly against her back, the hard ridge of his cock nestling against the cleft of her ass through their clothes—just for a second, then gone.

Usha gasped softly, dough forgotten.

"Sorry," he whispered, lips near her ear. "It's a small kitchen."

But he didn't move away immediately. His hand rested on her hip—possessive, steady—as if steadying her.

She felt the heat of him, the thickness pressing insistently. Her nipples tightened under her blouse; thighs clenched against the sudden rush of wetness.

"Careful with the heat, Aunty," he said, voice husky. "It can burn if you're not ready."

He stepped back slowly, leaving her trembling, cheeks flushed, heart pounding.

That night, in bed, Usha's fingers moved faster than ever—circling her clit, imagining that hardness pushing inside her neglected body. She came hard, muffling her cry in the pillow, tears of shame mixing with release.

She told herself it was the last time.

But deep down, she knew—Yash had only just begun.
And she was already weakening.

The seduction of Usha deepened slowly, deliberately, with Yash turning everyday moments into quiet traps of temptation. He never forced anything—never crossed the line into outright violation—but he made sure she could never forget what was waiting just out of reach.
After the kitchen press the “accidental” exposures began in earnest, each one framed as innocent clumsiness, each one leaving her more shaken than the last.
The first real flash happened on a quiet Tuesday morning. Kumar had left for a two-day trip to Mangalore. Praju was at college. Usha was in the living room sweeping when Yash emerged from his room after a shower, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. The knot was poorly tied—deliberately so—and as he bent to pick up the remote from the floor, the towel slipped completely. His massive cock swung free: thick, heavy, semi-hard from the warm water, veins prominent along the shaft, the fat head dark and glistening slightly from residual moisture. It hung low between his thighs, swaying with the motion of his body.
Usha’s broom froze mid-sweep. She stared—open-mouthed, breath caught—for three full seconds before Yash “realized” and caught the towel, pulling it back up with exaggerated slowness.
“Oops… sorry, Aunty,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. “Towel’s too loose today.”
He didn’t rush to cover himself fully. He adjusted the knot while looking straight at her, letting her see the full length one more time before turning away. Usha’s face burned crimson. She muttered something incoherent and fled to the kitchen, hands shaking as she gripped the counter. Between her legs, a shameful pulse of heat had already begun.
He didn’t mention it again. But he knew she’d seen. And he knew she was thinking about it.
The second flash came two days later, during an afternoon rain shower. Power was out again. Usha was folding clothes in the bedroom when Yash walked in wearing only loose boxer shorts, “looking for a charger.” The rain had made the fabric cling, and as he bent to search under the bed, the wide leg opening gaped open. His cock slipped out completely—thick shaft resting against his thigh, balls visible, the entire length exposed for a long moment while he “searched.”
Usha, standing near the wardrobe, saw everything. The sight hit her like a physical blow—her knees weakened, nipples tightening painfully against her blouse, a sudden gush of wetness soaking her panties. She turned away quickly, pretending to rearrange sarees, but her breathing was ragged.
Yash straightened up, cock still half-out, and said casually, “Found it, Aunty. Thanks.”
He tucked himself away slowly, deliberately, giving her one last glimpse before leaving the room.
That night she masturbated twice—once right after dinner while Kumar was on a call, fingers frantic on her clit as she pictured that cock hardening for her; once in the early hours, legs spread under the sheet, imagining it pressing against her entrance. She came with silent sobs, guilt choking her even as pleasure flooded her body.
Yash kept the pattern going—never the same circumstance twice, always “accidental,” always just long enough to sear the image deeper.
One evening while helping her water the terrace plants, his shorts rode low as he crouched to fill a bucket. The waistband slipped, exposing half his length—veined, thick, curving slightly upward even soft. Usha, kneeling beside him with a watering can, got an eye-level view. She nearly dropped the can. He “adjusted” casually, brushing the head against his thigh as he pulled the shorts up, murmuring, “These old shorts keep betraying me, Aunty.”
Another time, during a family card game with Praju present (Kumar away), Yash sat cross-legged on the floor in loose pajamas. When he shifted to deal cards, the fly gaped open—cock head peeking out, a single bead of precum shining at the tip from his own quiet arousal at watching her try to act normal. Praju was focused on his cards; Usha’s eyes flicked down repeatedly, face flushing, thighs squeezing together under her saree.
Each flash chipped away at her composure. She began avoiding eye contact, but her body betrayed her—nipples stiffening the moment he entered a room, wetness pooling at the mere sound of his voice. She started wearing an extra shawl at home, as if to shield herself, but it only drew attention to the way her breasts heaved with nervous breaths.
Yash escalated the psychological pressure without ever touching her sexually.
He’d leave his bedroom door cracked at night, “forgetting” to close it fully, letting her glimpse him stroking himself slowly—hand wrapped around that massive shaft, thumb circling the head—while pretending to read on his phone. Usha, passing to get water, would pause in the hallway, hidden in shadow, watching until shame forced her away.
He’d “accidentally” leave his used towel on the bathroom rack after a shower, still damp and carrying his musky scent, knowing she’d have to move it to hang fresh laundry.
One afternoon, while she was ironing in the hall, he walked past in only a towel again—knot slipping just as he passed behind her, cock brushing the back of her saree-covered thigh for a fleeting second. He didn’t apologize this time—just kept walking, leaving her frozen, iron hissing forgotten, a dark wet spot forming on her petticoat.
Usha’s resistance crumbled in stages.
She stopped protesting the flashes.
She stopped fleeing immediately.
She started lingering—half a second longer, a full second, watching.
Her masturbations became ritualistic—every night, sometimes twice, always to the same images: his cock swinging free, thick and heavy, glistening, waiting for her. She whispered his name once—barely audible—then clamped her hand over her mouth in horror.
Yash watched every crack in her armor widen.
He never rushed.
He never forced.
He simply waited—flashing, brushing, complimenting, touching just enough to keep her body screaming while her mind begged for mercy.
And slowly, inevitably, Usha began to wonder what it would feel like to stop running.
To stop pretending.
To walk into his room one night and let the towel fall completely.
She wasn’t there yet.
But she was close.
Very close.
Yash escalated the psychological pressure without ever touching her sexually.
Then came the panties—a new layer of intimacy that invaded her most private spaces.
It started subtly. Yash had taken to “helping” with laundry on quiet afternoons when Kumar was away and Praju at college—hanging clothes on the line, folding towels, all under the pretense of lightening her load. One day in mid-March, while sorting the basket in the utility room, he “discovered” a pair of her plain white cotton panties—damp from her earlier arousal after a hallway flash, the crotch stained slightly with her musky essence.
Usha was in the kitchen; he was alone. He picked them up slowly, bringing them to his nose—inhaling deeply, her intimate scent filling his lungs like a drug. His cock hardened instantly, thickening in his shorts. He slipped into his room quickly, door closed but not locked, and wrapped the soft fabric around his shaft. Stroking slowly at first, then faster, he pictured her wearing them—wet for him, thighs trembling. He came hard—thick ropes of cum soaking the crotch, marking them with his seed.
He rinsed them lightly in the sink to hide the evidence, but not completely—the faint residue remained, a subtle musk mixed with hers. Then he slipped them back into the laundry basket, buried under other clothes, and continued folding as if nothing happened.
Usha found them later that evening while putting away clean laundry. As she picked up the panties, they felt... different. Slightly stiff in the crotch, a faint, unfamiliar scent lingering—musky, masculine, mixed with her own. Her heart skipped. She knew what it was. Knew what he’d done.
She should have thrown them away. Should have confronted him.
Instead, shame and a twisted curiosity flooded her. Her nipples hardened; wetness bloomed anew between her legs. Trembling, she slipped them on under her saree—feeling the faint stickiness against her folds, his dried cum pressing against her most intimate skin like a secret brand.
The arousal was immediate, intense. Every step made her aware of it—rubbing subtly against her clit as she moved around the house. By dinner, she was soaked, thighs slick, barely able to focus as she served food to Praju and Yash.
Yash noticed her flushed cheeks, her avoided gaze, the way she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He smiled inwardly—he knew she’d found them. Worn them.
The game had leveled up.
He repeated the ritual sporadically—sniffing her panties when he could steal a pair from the hamper, masturbating into them, leaving just enough trace for her to detect but deny. Each time Usha discovered a “marked” pair, her reaction deepened: first horror, then reluctant arousal, then deliberate choice to wear them, letting his essence mingle with hers all day, stoking the fire between her legs until she masturbated furiously at night, imagining his cock pulsing that cum directly inside her.
She never spoke of it. Never stopped him.

Usha's secret fantasies had taken root long before Yash's arrival, buried deep in the neglected corners of her mind like forbidden seeds waiting for rain. But his presence—his calculated touches, his "accidental" flashes, his low whispers—had watered them until they bloomed wildly in the quiet hours of the night, twisting her from dutiful wife into a woman haunted by desires she could barely admit to herself.

At first, they were fragments: fleeting images that invaded her as she lay beside Kumar's snoring form, her body aching from years of untouched longing. She'd picture Yash's strong hands—those veined forearms she'd glimpsed during chores—sliding up her thighs, parting them slowly, his fingers tracing the damp edge of her panties before dipping inside. In the fantasy, she'd gasp "Beta, no..." but her hips would arch toward him, begging silently for more. The guilt would hit like a wave, but so would the heat, her own fingers mimicking the motion until release came in quiet, shameful shudders.

As the flashes accumulated—his massive cock swinging free from a slipped towel, peeking through gaping boxers, brushing her thigh in the hallway—her fantasies grew more vivid, more insistent. She'd imagine him catching her alone in the kitchen one afternoon, pressing her against the counter just like that first time, but without pulling away. His hardness would grind against her ass through the saree, slow and deliberate, while one hand cupped her heavy breast, thumb rolling her nipple until it ached. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you, Aunty?" he'd whisper, and in the dream, she'd nod—tears in her eyes—whispering "Yes... please..." as he hiked her saree, his thick head nudging her slick folds from behind.

Deeper still, the fantasies darkened with taboo. She'd envision Praju at college, Kumar away, and Yash leading her to his room—door closed, candles flickering like that power-cut night. He'd drop the towel fully this time, letting her see every inch of that donkey-sized cock: veined, throbbing, curving upward in arrogant demand. In her mind, she'd kneel—hesitant at first, then eager—lips parting to take the head into her mouth, tasting the salty bead of precum, her tongue swirling as his hand fisted her hair. The stretch would make her jaw ache, but the thrill of submission would make her wetter than ever, her free hand slipping between her legs to rub frantically while she sucked.

Some nights, the dreams turned possessive, dominant. Yash would pin her to the bed, saree torn open to expose her lush curves, his mouth claiming her breasts—sucking hard on one nipple while pinching the other—before sliding down to bury his face between her thighs. She'd fantasize his tongue lapping at her folds, circling her clit with expert pressure, driving her to the edge over and over without letting her come. "Beg for it, Aunty," he'd growl, and she'd sob "Please, beta... fuck me..." until he finally rose, positioning that massive length at her entrance, pushing in inch by thick inch, stretching her neglected pussy until she screamed in ecstasy and shame.

The guilt always lingered in these visions—Kumar's face flashing in her mind, Praju's innocent voice calling "Ma"—but it only heightened the forbidden rush. She'd wake sweat-slicked, panties soaked, fingers still buried inside herself, whispering prayers for forgiveness even as she craved the next "accident" that would fuel her secrets anew.

Usha knew these fantasies were destroying her, piece by faithful piece. But in the dark, alone with her thoughts, she couldn't stop watering them. They were hers now—dark, devouring, and utterly inescapable.

[Praju69]

Nice start update soon

?

[Runer]

Good start

[Munda007]

Keep the tease and flirting going. Nephew is going to rule the house

[Praju69]

Keep the tease and flirting going. Nephew is going to rule the house

For sure ?

[Praju69]

Yash's fantasies were a seething undercurrent long before he set foot in Usha's home, forged in the shadows of his predatory mind like blueprints for conquest, each one more depraved than the last as he plotted her fall from faithful wife to his personal plaything.

They started innocently in his youth—fleeting glimpses of her voluptuous form at family gatherings, her saree clinging to curves that made his young cock twitch—but evolved into something darker, more obsessive as he grew into his power. Alone in his penthouse, he'd stroke his massive donkey cock slowly, eyes closed, imagining her on her knees in that modest kitchen: pallu slipped, heavy breasts spilling free, lips parting hesitantly around his thick head. "Suck it, Aunty," he'd growl in the fantasy, hand fisting her long hair, guiding her deeper until her throat bulged, tears streaming as she choked but didn't stop—her neglected body betraying her with wetness dripping down her thighs.

Deeper fantasies twisted with dominance. He'd picture pinning her against the bedroom wall while Kumar snored obliviously next door—saree hiked to her waist, no panties (just like the ones he'd mark with his cum), his fingers plunging into her slick folds as she whimpered "Beta, we can't..." but her hips ground back against him. In his mind, he'd spin her around, lift one thick thigh over his hip, and thrust in raw—stretching her tight, unused pussy inch by brutal inch, her nails digging into his muscled back as she came screaming his name, guilt shattering into ecstasy.

The taboo fueled him most. Fantasies where Praju was at college, Kumar away, and Yash took her on the family bed—spreading her wide, tongue delving deep into her core until she begged for his cock, then filling her completely, pounding relentlessly as her breasts bounced, his seed flooding her womb in hot spurts. He'd imagine the aftermath: her wearing cum-soaked panties all day, feeling him leak out with every step, a constant reminder of her betrayal.

Sometimes they darkened further—humiliating Kumar by fucking Usha in earshot, making her moan loud enough to wake him, or forcing her to suck him under the dining table during family dinner, her eyes locked on his while Praju chatted innocently.

Yash's fantasies weren't just release—they were rehearsals. Each stroke hardened his resolve, each imagined moan sharpened his plan. He knew he'd make them real, one "accident" at a time, until Usha craved the ruin as much as he did.
Kumar’s plan for a family trip to Coorg was announced with unusual enthusiasm one rainy evening in late March 2026. He had booked sleeper berths on an overnight Volvo bus leaving Bengaluru at 10 PM—arriving in Coorg by morning for a long weekend of coffee estates, waterfalls, and relaxation. “We all need this,” he said, smiling at Usha and Praju across the dinner table. “No work, no stress. Just us.”
Yash, sitting quietly, nodded along, his eyes flicking to Usha’s face—watching the way her pallu slipped slightly when she reached for the roti, exposing the deep curve of her cleavage.
But two days later, Kumar’s phone rang during dinner. A major client crisis in Chennai—meetings that couldn’t be postponed. He paced the living room, voice tense, then returned defeated. “I can’t go. I have to fly out tomorrow morning.” He looked at Usha apologetically. “But the tickets are non-refundable… and Praju’s been looking forward to it.”
Usha’s heart skipped—relief and dread colliding in her chest.
Kumar turned to Yash. “Beta, you’re free this weekend, right? Take Usha and Praju.I’ll feel better knowing you’re with them.”
Yash’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes darkened when they met Usha’s.
“Of course, uncle. I’ll take care of them.”
Usha swallowed hard, thighs pressing together under the table as the familiar dampness bloomed between her legs.
The bus stand that night was crowded and chaotic—families, tourists, porters shouting. Praju was excited, backpack slung over his shoulder, chattering about spotting elephants. Usha wore a simple maroon saree, pallu pinned tightly, but the black panties she’d chosen that morning—another pair Yash had “marked” days earlier—clung wetly to her folds the moment she saw him waiting by the bus door in a fitted black t-shirt and jeans.
Yash helped Praju load the bags into the luggage hold, then turned to Usha with a small smile.
“You look… fuller today, Aunty,” he said quietly, eyes dropping deliberately to her heavy breasts and wide hips. “This saree is tight in all the right places. Makes you look even more… tempting.”
Usha’s cheeks flamed. She glanced around—no one close enough to hear—then hissed under her breath.
“I’m your aunt,” she hissed, voice cracking on the word. “Your mausi. Like your mother. You shouldn’t talk to me like that. You shouldn’t look at me like that. You shouldn’t… shouldn’t make my body feel these things.”
Yash didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on hers, dark and unblinking, the thick ridge of his cock visibly straining against his jeans inches from where her saree-covered thigh trembled.

The bus conductor called for boarding.

They climbed aboard—the sleeper coach dimly lit, curtains drawn around each berth. Praju excitedly claimed the upper berth near the front. Yash guided Usha toward the lower berth at the very back—private, curtained off, far from prying eyes.

“Praju,” Yash called softly as the boy climbed up. “It’s going to be bumpy up there. Why don’t you take my upper berth instead? I’ll sleep down here next to Aunty so she doesn’t get scared in the dark.”

Praju yawned, too sleepy to argue. “Okay, Yash bhaiya.”

He shuffled forward, climbed into the other upper berth, and within minutes was snoring softly.

Yash pulled the thick curtain around their lower berth, sealing them in a cocoon of dim red night-light and privacy. The bus rumbled to life, vibrations humming through the mattress.

Usha sat on the edge of the berth, heart pounding. Yash knelt in front of her—slowly—hands resting on her thick thighs over the saree.
Look at me, Aunty,” he whispered.

She did—eyes glassy with tears and lust.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” he said, voice rough. “For you to stop pretending. Tell me what you want right now… while Praju sleeps above us.”

Yash… stop. Just stop.”
Her hand flew up instinctively, pressing against his chest—not pushing him away, but holding him there, as if anchoring herself against the storm inside her.

Usha’s voice trembled as she gripped Yash’s wrist, eyes glistening with tears and shame. “Yash… what you’re doing is wrong—sinful. I’m your mausi, like your mother… this is taboo, a curse on our family, and every time you flash or touch me, you drag us both deeper into hell.”

She swallowed hard, her breath shaky. “You’re my sister’s son… how can you make me crave something so forbidden, so dirty… when I should only feel disgust?”

“Then why are you still holding me here, Aunty?” he asked quietly, voice velvet and dangerous. “Why haven’t you pushed me away?”
Usha’s fingers curled into his t-shirt—clenching, not releasing. Fresh tears welled in her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“Because… because you keep doing these things,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You keep flashing that… that fat cock of yours. In the hallway. In the bathroom. When you think no one’s looking—but I see. I always see. And then at night… I hear you. Jerking off. Moaning my name. Saying ‘Aunty… Aunty…’ while you stroke that huge thing. Thinking about me. Your own mausi.”
Yash’s cock jerked visibly at her words—throbbing so hard she could see the pulse through the denim.
He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot.
“I’m going mad for you, Aunty,” he confessed, voice raw. “Completely fucking mad. Every time I see that fat, juicy ass swaying when you walk to the kitchen… every time your big tits bounce under your blouse… I lose my mind. I can’t stop. I stroke myself three, four times a day thinking about you—about burying my face between those thick thighs, about spreading that perfect ass and sliding my cock between your cheeks until I paint your back with my cum.”
Usha whimpered—soft, broken—her free hand unconsciously drifting to her own breast, pressing against the aching nipple through her blouse.
“You shouldn’t say these things,” she whispered again, but the protest sounded hollow now, almost pleading. “I’m old enough to be your mother. I’m… I’m fat. My hips are too wide, my breasts too heavy… I’m not some young girl.”
Yash’s hand slid to her waist—slow, possessive—fingers digging into the soft flesh above her saree petticoat.
“Fat?” he repeated, voice thick with hunger. “You call this fat? This is fucking perfection. These wide hips were made to be gripped while I fuck you from behind. These heavy tits were made to bounce when I pound into you. Your ass—god, Aunty, that big, round, jiggly ass—makes me harder than anything else. I want to bury my face in it. Spank it red. Spread it and watch my cum drip down your crack while you cry my name.”
Usha’s thighs trembled violently. A fresh rush of wetness soaked through her panties, trickling down her inner thigh. She pressed her legs together, trying to hide it, but Yash’s hand slipped lower—cupping the full curve of her ass through the saree, squeezing hard.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he growled against her neck. “Every curve. Every inch. Kumar uncle doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t touch you like you need to be touched. But I will. I’ll worship every part of you. I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name… forget you’re supposed to be my ‘good mausi.’ You’ll just be mine. My dirty, needy, cock-hungry aunty.”
Usha’s sob was muffled against his shoulder. Her hand slid down—hesitant, then bolder—cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, feeling the heat, the thickness, the relentless throb.

Yash’s mouth slammed against hers in a forceful, devouring smooch—his lips hot and demanding, tasting faintly of mint from the gum he’d chewed earlier, tongue thrusting past her parted lips with raw, unyielding hunger, invading the warm, wet cavern of her mouth like he owned it.
Usha’s initial gasp was muffled into a choked whimper against his invading tongue; her palms shoved weakly at his broad chest, fingers curling into the damp cotton of his t-shirt as the sharp, salty tang of her own tears mixed with the slick slide of saliva exchanging between them—thick, messy strings of spit stretching and breaking as he angled her head back, deepening the kiss until her jaw ached and her lips swelled under the relentless pressure.
Within seconds her resistance shattered—her body betraying her with a full-body shudder, a soft, broken moan vibrating into his mouth as her tongue tentatively met his, then curled eagerly around it, sucking and swirling in desperate surrender; the wet, obscene sounds of their deep smooch filled the tiny space—slurping, panting, the slick glide of tongues tangling while saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth, trailing hot down her chin and onto the heaving tops of her breasts, her nipples scbanging painfully hard against the thin blouse as she arched into him, hips rocking helplessly against the thick, throbbing ridge of his cock straining through his jeans.

Yash groaned low in his throat. He tugged her pallu free—slowly—exposing her heavy breasts straining against the blouse. He unhooked it with practiced fingers, letting them spill out—dark nipples already hard and aching.
“So fucking beautiful,” he breathed, lowering his mouth to one, sucking hard while his hand cupped the other, pinching and rolling.
Usha moaned softly—muffling it against her palm. “Yash… beta… oh god… suck harder… please…”
He obliged—teeth grazing, tongue flicking—while his other hand slid under her saree, pushing the soaked panties aside. Two thick fingers plunged into her dripping cunt, curling against her g-spot.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growled against her breast. “Your pussy’s sucking my fingers like it’s starving. Tell me—tell me you want your nephew’s cock right here, right now.”
Usha’s hips bucked, riding his hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Yes… yes… I want it. I want my own sister’s son’s fat cock inside me. I want you to fuck me… breed me… ruin me… while Praju sleeps above us. Please, beta… fuck your mausi… make me come on your big dick…”
Yash withdrew his fingers—slick and shining—then stood, shoving his jeans and boxers down. His massive cock sprang free—thick, veined, leaking precum, curving upward aggressively.
Usha stared—mouth open, tears falling—then reached for it, wrapping both hands around the shaft.
“It’s so big… so thick… how will it fit…?”
“It’ll fit,” Yash growled, guiding her back onto the berth. “Because you were made for it.”
He pushed her saree up to her waist, tore the panties aside, and positioned himself at her entrance—rubbing the fat head along her soaked slit.
“Say it one more time,” he demanded. “Beg for your nephew’s cock.”
Usha sobbed, legs spreading wider.
“Please… beta… fuck me. Fuck your mausi’s wet cunt. Stretch me with that fat cock… fill me with your cum… make me yours…”
Yash thrust in—slow at first—inch by thick inch—stretching her neglected walls until he bottomed out, balls pressed against her ass.
Usha’s back arched, a choked cry escaping before she bit her lip to muffle it. “Oh god… it’s too much… too deep… you’re splitting me…”
Yash held still, letting her adjust—then began to move—deep, slow strokes—each one dragging against every sensitive spot.
“You feel that?” he whispered harshly. “That’s your nephew owning you. Every thrust… every inch… claiming what Kumar uncle never could.”
Usha’s nails dug into his shoulders, hips rising to meet him.
“Yes… yes… own me… fuck me harder… make me come on your big cock… please…”
He picked up speed—bed creaking softly, bus vibrations masking the sound—pounding into her with controlled power. One hand covered her mouth gently to keep her quiet; the other pinched and twisted her nipple.

A sudden rustle from above.
“Ma…?” Praju’s sleepy voice drifted down through the thin mattress. “Why’s the bus shaking so much…?”
Usha froze—eyes wide with panic—her body still impaled on the edge of Yash’s clothed cock, thighs quivering around his waist. Yash’s hand clamped gently over her mouth, silencing the whimper that tried to escape.
Yash answered calmly, voice steady as if nothing was happening. “It’s just the road, little man. Bumpy ghat section. Go back to sleep.”
Praju yawned, shifting. “Okay… but Ma sounds like she’s crying…”
Usha’s tears were real now—silent, streaming down her cheeks as shame and terror crashed over her. Yash’s other hand stayed firm on her hip, keeping her pinned against his throbbing length, not letting her pull away.
“She’s fine,” Yash said smoothly, thumb stroking Usha’s cheek tenderly even as his cock pulsed against her soaked entrance. “Just tired from the journey. Close your eyes, Praju. Dream of elephants tomorrow.”
A long pause. Then Praju mumbled, “Okay, Yash bhaiya… good night, Ma…”
The rustle faded. Soft snores resumed above them.
Yash slowly removed his hand from Usha’s mouth. Her lips trembled, eyes glassy with tears and unbearable need.
“He almost heard me…” she whispered, voice shaking. “He almost caught his mother… grinding on her nephew’s cock like a slut…”
Yash fucked her through it—relentless—then groaned low.
Usha came first—hard, sudden—walls clenching around him like a fist, body shaking, muffled sobs vibrating against his palm. Tears streamed as pleasure ripped through her.



“Gonna fill you, Aunty… gonna pump my cum deep in your mausi cunt…”

“Do it,” she gasped against his hand. “Breed me… fill me… make me drip your seed all night…”

He buried himself to the hilt—cock pulsing—thick ropes flooding her, spilling out around his shaft as he came with a guttural groan.

They stayed locked together—panting, trembling—his cum leaking out of her onto the berth sheet.

Yash kissed her forehead—soft now—then pulled out slowly, watching his seed drip from her swollen pussy.

“Sleep with it inside you,” he whispered. “So you feel me all night… while Praju sleeps above us.”

Usha nodded weakly—body spent, mind shattered—pulling her saree down over the mess between her thighs.

She whispered one last thing before he slipped back to the upper berth:

“Thank you… beta.”

And in the dark, rocking bus, with her son sleeping innocently above and her nephew’s cum leaking out of her, Usha finally stopped fighting.

She was his.

Completely.


This is how yash was fuckikg my mom from behind

[123@abc]

Wow just great
Yesh's domination
Usha's submission
And cherry on the top is Praju's presence making the story hot

[Kore shivkant]

Great start... looking for the next update soon......

[Runer]

Next Update

[rangeeladesi]

Waiting.