Fantasy My Conservative Mom Trapped in Weird Circumstances- Revived

[Repsbanna]

Aap se story complete na ho to bata do... Itna late koi reply hota h kiya

[Rocky]

Update bro

[Fing fing]

Please update

[Repsbanna]

Ayega ya nhi update

[Rocky]

Update please

[RajV]

A few days later Papa left for his trip

The house woke up slower than usual. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm and lazy. I came out of my room around 9 a.m., still in my sleep shorts and t-shirt, hair messy.


Maa was already in the living room — wearing nothing but a short, sheer white nightie that barely reached mid-thigh. The fabric was almost transparent in the morning light, clinging to her full, soft curves: heavy breasts swaying freely, dark nipples clearly visible, wide hips and rounded backside outlined perfectly, fair skin glowing. No panties, no bra — completely bare underneath.

Chacha was on the sofa in just his pajama bottoms, bare-chested. He looked up when I entered, gave a small, shy smile — no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance.

Maa turned from the window where she’d been stretching. Saw me. Smiled — warm, motherly, but with that new, unhidden heat in her eyes.

“Beta… uth gaya? Chai bana rahi hoon. Baith ja.”

She walked over to Chacha — hips swaying naturally — and sat sideways on his lap. The nightie rode up immediately, exposing her bare thighs and the soft curve where they met her hips. She leaned in, kissed him slow — lips parting, tongue brushing his, a soft hum of pleasure in her throat.

Chacha’s arms wrapped around her waist. One hand slid up under the nightie, cupping her breast openly — thumb circling the nipple until it hardened further. Maa arched slightly, breaking the kiss to moan low.

She looked at me — eyes soft but direct — while Chacha’s other hand slid between her thighs. Her legs parted wider on his lap, nightie pushed up to her waist now. Fair mound exposed, already glistening. His fingers moved slow, gentle at first, then deeper.

Maa’s breath hitched. “Haan… aise hi… dheere…”

She rocked against his hand — breasts bouncing under the thin fabric, nipples straining. Chacha kissed her neck, her collarbone, then took one breast into his mouth through the nightie — sucking softly, wet sounds filling the room.

She looked at me again — mid-moan.

“Beta… tu uncomfortable toh nahi feel kar raha? Bol de agar hai.”

I shook my head slowly. Voice quiet. “Nahi Maa… main… theek hoon.”

She smiled — loving, relieved — then moaned louder as Chacha’s fingers curled inside her.

She stood suddenly. Pulled the nightie over her head in one motion — completely naked now. Fair body on full display: full breasts, soft belly, wide hips, trimmed mound, thighs already slick.

She turned to Chacha — pushed him back on the sofa. Untied his pajama, pulled it down. His erection sprang free — thick, hard. She straddled him again — facing me this time — so I saw everything.

She sank down slowly — inch by inch — eyes closing in pleasure as he filled her.

“Aah… poora andar… kitna acha lagta hai…”

She began to ride — slow rolls at first, then deeper, harder. Breasts bouncing, hips grinding, soft flesh slapping against his. Chacha’s hands gripped her ass — spreading her slightly, thumbs brushing where they joined.

Maa’s moans grew — unfiltered, raw. “Haan… aur zor se… Devar ji"

She looked at me the whole time — eyes locked — loving, inviting me to witness without shame.

She came first — body trembling, cry long and shuddering, nails digging into Chacha’s shoulders. He followed seconds later — hips bucking up, groaning her name as he spilled inside her.

They stilled — breathing heavy. Maa leaned forward, kissed him tenderly. Then turned to me — still joined, still naked.

“Beta… aa na. Paas aa.”

I stood. Walked closer — hesitant but drawn.

She reached out. Took my hand. Placed it on her cheek — warm, soft.

“Tu humara beta hai. Yeh sab… yeh pyar ka hissa hai. Tu kabhi door mat feel karna.”

She pulled me into a hug — naked body against my t-shirt, breasts soft against my chest, warmth of her skin, scent of jasmine and sex.

Chacha watched — gentle smile.

Maa whispered against my ear.

“Ab tu jaanta hai. No more confusion. Theek hai?”

I nodded — throat tight.

“Theek hai, Maa.”

Then turned back to Chacha — still on his lap — and started moving again. Slower this time. More tender.

I didn’t leave.


I sat back down.
Watched.

The confusion wasn’t gone completely.
But the shame was. Replaced by something deeper.

wow this is a big one, after the last episode on family trauma what a new direction....super

[Repsbanna]

Ye writter h ya ghanchakkar... Ye jinda bhi h ya mar gya h
Innocent_Pervert

[Rocky]

Waiting for updates

[Innocent_Pervert]

I was not well for the past few days, I am sorry to keep you all waiting.

I will be restarting my writing from today.

[Innocent_Pervert]

I watch Maa from the hallway. She stands by the kitchen window, arms folded under her chest. The sun shines on her saree, making it look thin and soft against her skin. Her face looks calm, but her eyes are far away. She is thinking about old days.


Back then, right after the secret wedding, Maa tried so hard to make everyone happy. She woke up very early, cleaned the whole house, made Papa’s favourite paratha with lots of ghee—no onion, just how he liked it. For Chacha, she made poha with extra peanuts because he once said he missed his wife’s cooking. She ironed Papa’s shirts perfectly, folded Chacha’s clothes neatly, kept their medicines ready every day. 

She smiled all the time, laughed at small things, touched their arms gently when she passed by. She never complained about sleeping between them or the neighbours’ whispers.

Maa wanted to show she was still good. Still useful. She thought if she was perfect, Papa would love her like before, and Chacha would not feel bad for being there. So she cooked more, stayed up late to fix torn clothes, woke early to light the diya in the mandir. She asked everyone if they slept well, if they needed tea or water. She tried to fill every empty space with her care.

But the house still felt cold. Papa’s smiles were small. Chacha said thank you but looked away. No matter how much Maa gave, it never felt enough.

Now Maa breathes out slowly. Her body has changed—breasts bigger and heavier, hips wider, thighs thicker. She does not hide them anymore. She wears sarees low on her waist, blouses tight so her nipples show a little when she moves. She walks with a natural sway, knowing how her body looks.

Last night comes back to her mind sharply.

Papa came home from his trip. Maa wore only a thin white nightie—no bra, no panties. Chacha stood behind her in the kitchen, hands on her waist, pressing hard against her. Maa pushed back, letting him feel her. She turned and kissed him deep, tongue in his mouth.
Papa walked in. Maa did not cover up. She went to him, kissed him hard while Chacha’s fingers went between her legs from behind. She was already wet.

They went to the sofa. Maa pulled off the nightie fast—naked now, breasts free, nipples hard. She sat on Papa first, taking his cock deep inside her with a loud moan. Chacha came behind, spread her ass, and pushed in slowly until both were inside her at once. Maa moved hard—up and down, side to side—screaming their names. “Yes… harder… fill me completely…”

Her body shook. She came strong—squeezing them tight, juices running down. Then again, even harder, when Chacha rubbed her clit fast. When they finished—Papa deep in her front, Chacha deep in her back—Maa stayed there. Legs wide open, cum dripping thick down her thighs. She kissed them both long and slow. “I love you,” she said to each one, voice shaking with feeling. “Both of you. So much.”
They held her tight—Papa’s arms around her waist, Chacha’s face between her breasts. No more guilt. No more trying.

Now Maa does not try to impress with perfect food or neat clothes. When she opens her legs wide—on the bed, on the sofa, in the kitchen—when she lets them fuck her hard, deep, rough or slow and loving, when she moans loud and comes shaking, when cum leaks from both holes—she is loved. Really loved. Fiercely. Deeply.

Papa looks at her like she is everything. Chacha touches her like she saved him. They need her—not just her body, but her completely.

Maa turns from the window. She sees me watching. Her smile is soft but sure.

“Beta,” she says quietly, “want some chai?”

I nod. My throat feels tight.

She walks to the stove—hips moving naturally, saree slipping just a little to show more skin. No hiding. No fear.

She is loved now—exactly as she is. Open, hungry, real.

And that love is stronger than any perfect smile or folded shirt ever was.

Family Wedding

The family wedding was simple and traditional. The village home was full of relatives, dhol beats, fresh flowers, and the smell of sweets. Maa wore a soft green nine-yard saree, dbangd tightly around her hips, low on her waist. 

The pallu was tucked in but moved easily when she walked. Her blouse was short-sleeved and fitted, showing the full shape of her breasts. Simple gold bangles and a small nose ring. She looked graceful and calm, her body soft and natural.


Maa moved quietly—helping with the haldi, serving sweets, smiling at the women. But her saree slipped a little when she bent down, or when she reached for something. The pallu shifted just enough to show the curve of her waist, the soft dip of her navel, and the way her breasts pressed against the blouse.

Papa and Chacha noticed every time. Their eyes followed her—quiet, hungry. Maa caught their looks and gave a small, secret smile. Nothing big. Just enough to make them want her more.

But the men from the village and distant relatives noticed too. And their words were crude, loud in whispers.
During the haldi ceremony in the courtyard, a group of uncles stood near the gate, chewing paan, watching Maa apply paste to the bride. One thick-moustached man leaned close to his friend.

“Arre saale, dekh yeh bhabhi… kitna maal hai. Saree mein bhi gaand bilkul gol aur tight dikhti hai. Bend karke haldi lagati hai toh pura cleavage bahar aa jata hai. Nipple tak outline dikh raha hai blouse mein. 46 ki hai aur abhi bhi itni garam… ghar mein dono mard roz thokte honge isko.”

His friend laughed low, spitting paan juice. “Haan re… suna hai do pati hain—ek asli, ek devar. Raat ko teeno ek bed pe. Yeh aurat toh dono ko sambhalti hogi. Ek ke neeche leti hai, dusra peeche se daalta hai. Gaand mein bhi le leti hogi… aisi randi jaisi body ke saath kya karegi? Roz subah uthke gaand marwati hogi.”

Another man joined, voice thick. “Dekh kaise chal rahi hai… hips hilate hue jaise invite kar rahi ho. Pallu gir jaaye toh pura pet aur navel dikhega. Blouse itna tight ki doodh bahar aane ko taiyar. Yeh roz ghar mein aise hi ghoomti hogi—nangi ghumti hogi shayad. Pati ko bhi maza aata hoga dekh ke ki uski biwi devar ke saath maze leti hai. Ya jalata hoga andar se… par lund khada ho jata hoga dekh ke.”

They chuckled, eyes glued to Maa as she bent again—saree pulling tight across her ass, blouse dipping lower. “Saali… jaan bujh kar dikha rahi hai. Lagta hai hum sabko bhi line de rahi hai. Agar mile toh ek baar chod ke dekh loon… gaand mein daal ke chillayegi ya maze legi?”

During mehendi, they sat under the tree, smoking beedi. The loud one pointed with his chin.

“Dekh… mehendi lagwate waqt legs thoda khol ke baithi hai. Saree ke andar petticoat bhi tight. Thoda aur khol degi toh chut ka shape bhi dikh jayega. Yeh aurat toh bilkul garam maal hai. Raat ko dono mard iske upar chadh ke thokte honge—ek muh mein daal ke, dusra neeche. Cum se bhari rehti hogi subah tak. Pati ko bhi pasand hai shayad… dekh ke muth marta hoga alag se.”

His friend added, “Haan… suna hai yeh dono ko ek saath leti hai. Double penetration karti hogi. Gaand aur chut dono bhar ke chillati hogi. Aisi body ke saath toh roz nayi position try karti hogi. Lucky hain dono mard… hum jaise log toh sapne mein bhi nahi dekh sakte.”

At dinner under the canopy, when Maa bent to serve rice, her blouse dipped deep. The whispers started again.

“Arre… dekh doodh kitne bade hain. Nipple saaf dikh rahe hain lantern mein. Yeh aurat toh jaan bujh kar bra nahi pehenti. Gaand bhi hil rahi hai jaise bol rahi ho ‘aao maaro’. Raat ko yeh dono ko leke maze legi—ek ke lund muh mein, dusra chut mein. Cum bahar nikal ke thighs pe tapkega. Phir subah uthke chai banayegi jaise kuch hua hi nahi.”
“Pati ko bhi maza aata hoga… dekh ke ki biwi devar ke saath chud rahi hai. Ya shayad woh bhi join karta hai. Teeno ek saath… yeh ghar toh pura chudai ka adda hai.”

They snickered, louder this time. Maa straightened slowly. She walked past their table without looking. But as she passed, she let her pallu slip further—showing the smooth curve of her lower back and the top of her petticoat. The men went quiet for a second. Then one muttered, “Saali… sun rahi hai aur dikha rahi hai bhi. Chalegi toh hum sabko bhi line de degi.”

Maa didn’t react. She kept walking, hips swaying naturally, back straight.

Papa and Chacha heard some of it. Their faces darkened. Papa’s fist clenched. Chacha looked ready to fight. But Maa came back to them, sat between them, and whispered softly in Papa’s ear, then Chacha’s. Both men relaxed a little. 

She fed them sweet from her hand—slow, gentle. Her eyes said: Let them talk. They don’t matter.

Later that night, in the room, door closed, Maa turned to them. Her voice was low.

“Unki baatein sun li. Gande hain. Par unki gandi baaton se humara pyar kam nahi hota.”

She stepped closer. Let the pallu fall. Blouse still on, but her breasts rose with her breath. She pulled Papa close first, kissed him deep. Then Chacha. Her hands pressed them against her.

“Aaj raat… sirf hum. Koi baahar ki awaaz nahi.”

[Innocent_Pervert]

The whispers hit me harder than I expected.


I was sitting just a few feet away during the haldi, pretending to scroll on my phone, but my ears caught every word those uncles muttered. At first it was just background noise—crude, dirty talk about Maa’s body, her saree, her curves. But then the words sank in: “gaand bilkul tight”, “dono ko sambhalti hogi”, “raat ko teeno ek bed pe”, “cum se bhari rehti hogi”. They laughed like it was a joke, like Maa was some object in a story they made up.

My stomach twisted. Heat rushed to my face—not the usual feeling from watching her tease Papa and Chacha. This was different. Shame. Anger. A sick kind of embarrassment that made my hands shake.

I looked at Maa. She was still smiling, still applying haldi, still graceful. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn red. But I knew she heard them too—her fingers paused on the paste cone for half a second. She kept going, back straight, like their words were flies she could swat away.

But I couldn’t. Every time one of them said “aisi randi jaisi body” or “double penetration karti hogi”, it felt like they were talking about my mother. My Maa. The woman who raised me, who made my favourite food when I was sick, who hugged me when I cried after college fights. And now these strangers were reducing her to… parts. Holes. A thing to fuck.

I wanted to stand up. Yell at them. Tell them to shut up. But what would I say? “Don’t talk about my mother like that”? They would laugh louder. Or worse—they might guess the truth and make it uglier.

So I stayed quiet. Sat there burning inside. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t breathe properly. Part of me hated those men. Part of me hated that I was hard under the table—because even while the words hurt, hearing them describe Maa’s body, her moans, the way she takes both men… it stirred that same sweet, guilty heat I always feel when I watch her at home.

That made it worse. The shame doubled. I felt dirty for getting aroused while they insulted her. Like I was one of them.
During mehendi, the whispers continued. “Chut ka shape dikh jayega”, “roz gaand marwati hogi”. I gripped my phone so hard the edges dug into my palm. I glanced at Papa and Chacha—they heard too. Papa’s jaw was tight, fist clenched on his knee. Chacha looked like he wanted to punch someone. But neither moved. They just watched Maa, protective, angry, but silent.

Maa never looked at them. She kept singing softly with the women, applying mehendi, laughing at their jokes. But when she glanced my way—once, quick—her eyes were soft. Like she was saying: I’m okay, beta. Don’t let it touch you.
But it did touch me.

By dinner, when they said “cum bahar nikal ke thighs pe tapkega” and laughed, something broke inside. I felt small. Powerless. Like the whole village knew our secret—or thought they did—and turned it into filth. I wanted to disappear. Or protect her. Or both.

When Maa bent to serve rice and her blouse dipped, showing her breasts, those men whispered again—“nipple saaf dikh rahe hain”, “jaan bujh kar bra nahi pehenti”. I felt my face burn. But Maa didn’t cover up faster. She straightened slowly, walked past them, let the pallu slip just a bit—like she was daring them. Like she was saying: Look all you want. You’ll never have what they have.

That moment shifted something in me. The shame didn’t go away, but it mixed with pride. Pride that she was mine—our family’s. That she heard their garbage and didn’t break. That she walked taller, hips swaying, owning every curve they talked about.

Later in the room, when she kissed Papa and Chacha and whispered “unki baatein se kuch farak nahi padta”, I felt it too. Their words were cheap. Empty. They could talk all they wanted about her body, her holes, her nights. But they didn’t know her. Not the way we did.

The whispers hurt. They made me angry, ashamed, confused. But they also made me see Maa clearer. She wasn’t ashamed. She wasn’t small. She was strong. Loved. And no dirty talk from strangers could take that away.
I lay awake that night, listening to the soft sounds from the other side of the room—Maa’s quiet breathing between Papa and Chacha. The whispers echoed in my head, crude and ugly.

The crude whispers from the wedding didn’t just fade when we drove away. They followed me home like a shadow I couldn’t shake, growing heavier every day.


At first it was only in quiet moments—when the house was still and I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The words replayed in my head, slow and vicious: “gaand bilkul tight dikhti hai… dono ko sambhalti hogi… raat ko teeno ek bed pe… cum se bhari rehti hogi… gaand mein bhi le leti hogi… roz thokte honge isko.” Each phrase felt like a slap. My own mother. The woman who used to sit beside me when I was sick, holding my hand, telling stories until I fell asleep. Now reduced to filthy jokes about her body, her holes, her nights.

I felt sick. Literally sick. My stomach churned so hard I had to curl up on my side, pressing a pillow to my chest like it could stop the ache. Shame burned behind my eyes—hot, wet, choking. Because even as the words disgusted me, they painted pictures I couldn’t unsee: Maa’s legs spread, her moans, the way she takes both Papa and Chacha, the way cum drips down her thighs. And worse—my body reacted. 

That familiar honey heat pooled low in my belly, my cock stirring against my will. I hated myself for it. Hated that their dirt could make me hard while making me want to cry.
I started avoiding mirrors. I couldn’t look at my own face without seeing the same leer those uncles had. I felt like one of them. Like I was betraying her just by listening, by remembering, by wanting.

At college the next week, everything felt wrong. Friends laughed about normal things—cricket, exams, girls—and I forced smiles, but inside I was screaming. What if someone had heard? What if a cousin told a friend, and now the whole city knew? I skipped lunch in the canteen, sat alone on the stairs, replaying every whisper until my throat closed up. Tears came once—silent, angry ones. I wiped them fast before anyone saw. I wasn’t supposed to cry. I was the son. I was supposed to protect her.

Papa changed too. He spoke less, smiled less. When the landline rang and it was a relative “just checking in,” his voice went flat. “Haan, sab theek hai.” He hung up quickly, then sat staring at the wall. 

I saw him look at Maa sometimes—like he was afraid the talk would make her leave, or make him lose her. He started holding her hand under the table at dinner, fingers tight, like he needed proof she was still his.

Chacha withdrew more. He stopped joking, stopped teasing Maa in front of me. His eyes followed her with guilt, as if the whispers were his fault. As if being the “devar” made him the villain in their story.

But Maa… Maa didn’t break.

She still woke early, still made chai the way we liked it, still wore her sarees low and blouses fitted. When she caught me staring at her one morning—lost in my head—she didn’t ask what was wrong. She just came over, placed a cup of tea in my hands, and let her fingers brush mine. “Piyo beta. Thanda ho jayega.”

Her touch was warm. Steady. Motherly.

That night, after dinner, she sat between Papa and Chacha on the sofa. No words. Just closeness. She leaned her head on Papa’s shoulder, let Chacha rest his hand on her thigh under the pallu.

I watched from the doorway, heart pounding. They didn’t do anything more—not with me there. But the way she looked at them, the way she let them touch her without shame… it was louder than any whisper.

Later, when they went to bed, I heard the soft sounds again—kisses, sighs, the rustle of sheets. Quiet. Loving.

I stood outside the door, chest tight, tears burning again. Not just shame this time. Rage. At those uncles. At the village. At how easily they turned my Maa—my strong, beautiful, unbreakable Maa—into something dirty.

But mostly rage at myself for letting their words live in my head so long.

I went back to my room, lay down, and stared at the dark ceiling. The whispers tried to drown out everything good. But they couldn’t. Not completely.

Because inside these walls, Maa was still Maa. Loved. Wanted. Whole.

And no amount of cheap talk could take that away.

The next morning I woke up different. Not fixed. Not brave. But angrier in a quieter way. Protective. I decided I wouldn’t let their words win. I would watch her the same way—yes, with that honey pull—but also with pride. She wasn’t what they said. She was more.

When Maa brought me breakfast, I looked up at her and said, voice low: “Maa… I love you.”

She paused, eyes softening. Then she leaned down, kissed my forehead—long, warm, like when I was small.

“I know, beta,” she whispered. “I know.”

And in that moment, the whispers felt a little farther away. Not gone. But smaller. Weaker.

[Innocent_Pervert]

The rain was pouring hard. Power went out. The house felt hot and sticky. Maa sat on the sofa in her thin white nightie—short, sleeveless, no bra or panties. The fabric stuck a little to her skin. Her breasts looked full, nipples dark and hard. Thighs soft and open just a bit. She fanned herself with a leaf, smiling naughty.


Papa and Chacha sat opposite, reading old newspapers. I sat in the chair, phone in hand, but eyes on Maa.
She saw me looking. Smiled big.

“Arre… sab itne serious kyun?” she said playfully. “Garmi ne mood kharab kar diya. Chalo kuch masti karte hain!”

Papa put down his paper. “Kaunsi masti?”

Maa patted the sofa. “Truth or truth game! No dare. Bas sach bolna. Jhooth bola toh saza milegi. Saza main decide karungi.”

Chacha laughed shyly. “Bhabhi… yeh game khatarnak hai.”

Maa pouted cutely. “Khatarnak? Main itni buri hoon kya? Chalo shuru!”

She pointed at Papa. “Papa ji… sach batao. Aaj subah kitchen mein jab tum peeche aaye aur meri kamar pakdi… kya soch rahe the?”

Papa’s face turned red. “Soch raha tha… teri kamar kitni mast hai. Aur agar haath thoda neeche gaya toh kitna maza aayega.”

Maa clapped her hands. “Sach bola! Good boy. No saza.”

Now she looked at Chacha. Leaned forward so her breasts pushed against the nightie. “Devar ji… kal raat jab main tumhare upar baithi thi aur dheere hil rahi thi… sabse zyada kya pasand aaya?”

Chacha looked shy. “Jab aap jhuk ke kiss kar rahi thi… aur aapke boobs mere muh ke paas the. Woh feel bahut acha laga.”

Maa giggled happily. “Achha? Toh aaj bhi try kar sakte hain. Par pehle beta ka turn.”

She looked at me—eyes soft and teasing. “Beta… sach batao. Aaj subah jab main chai bana rahi thi aur nightie thoda upar chadha tha… tune dekha tha na? Aur kya laga?”

I felt hot in my face. “Haan Maa… dekha tha. Bahut… sundar lag rahi thi. Bahut soft.”

Maa smiled sweetly. “Aww… mera beta! Sach bola. No saza. Good boy.”

She stood up slowly. Walked to the middle of the room. Rain light fell on her. Nightie almost see-through now—breasts clear, nipples hard, dark patch between legs showing a little.

“Ab mazedaar round,” she said. “Main bolungi… tum sunoge. Beta bhi. Aur haath bhi chalayenge… thoda sa.”

She put one foot on the small stool. Knee bent. Nightie went up high. Thigh showed fully.

“Papa ji… tumhara haath yahan.” She pointed to left thigh. “Dheere se upar aao.”

Papa came close. Put hand on her thigh. Slid up slowly. Fingers stopped just under her hip.

“Chacha ji… tum yahan.” Right thigh. “Thoda tease karo… jaise kal raat.”

Chacha knelt. Hand gentle. Fingers moved in circles. Thumb touched edge of her private place—light, playful.

Maa sighed happily. “Haan… aise hi. Ab bolo… kya karna chahoge?”

Papa’s voice rough: “Tujhe abhi yahin ghutno pe bitha ke muh mein lena hai.”

Maa laughed naughty. “Oho! Itna jaldi? Sabr karo na… beta dekh raha hai.”

Chacha smiled. “Main toh bas teri chut chaatna chahta hoon… dheere-dheere… jab tak tu chillaye nahi.”
Maa pretended to think. Finger on chin. “Hmm… theek hai. Par rule: Jo pehle mujhe moan karwayega… usko extra kiss milega.”

She sat back on sofa. Legs wide. Nightie up to waist. No panties. Her private place wet and shiny.

She looked at me. “Beta… comfortable ho na? Game boring toh nahi?”

I shook head. “Nahi Maa… bahut achha lag raha hai.”

Maa winked. “Good boy. Ab dekho kaise main in dono ko pagal karti hoon.”

Papa knelt between her legs. Kissed thigh. Tongue went higher. Maa moaned soft. “Arre Papa ji… dheere… beta sharminda ho jayega.”

Chacha took her breast in mouth through nightie. Sucked nipple. Fabric got wet. Maa arched. “Haan Devar ji… aise chooso… jaise bachcha doodh peeta hai.”

She moved hips slowly. Moaned louder but still playful. “Dekho beta… kitna maza aa raha hai Maa ko. Tumhare Papa aur Chacha kitne ache hain na?”

Eyes on me—loving, proud, naughty. “Ab bolo… kaun jeeta? Kaun pehle moan karwaya?”

Papa lifted head, lips wet. “Main.”

Chacha pouted. “Arre Bhabhi… maine toh nipple pe focus kiya!”

Maa laughed loud. “Theek hai… dono jeete. Extra kiss dono ko.”

She pulled them close. Kissed Papa deep. Tongue played. Then Chacha same. Tasted herself.
Looked at me again.

“Beta… game khatam? Ya aur round chahiye?”

Rain kept falling. Room smelled sweet—of her.

I said slowly: “Aur round chahiye, Maa.”

Maa smiled big—happy, loving.

“Theek hai beta. Ab dekho kaise main in dono ko aur pagal karti hoon.”

Later that day,  She sat cross-legged on the carpet. “Chalo… blindfold taste game! Main sabko aankhein bandh karungi. Ek-ek cheez khilaungi. Guess karna hai kya hai. Galat bola toh saza! Aur saza… main decide karungi. Ready?”


Papa and Chacha sat in front. I sat to the side, heart beating fast.

Maa took the dupatta, walked behind Papa. Leaned over him—her breasts brushed his back lightly. “Papa ji… aankhein bandh. Aur muh kholo… bahut dheere se.”

She tied the dupatta. Fingers played on his cheeks. “Ab ready ho na? Ya darr lag raha hai?”

Papa chuckled. “Darr? Tujhse? Kabhi nahi. Par yeh game bahut naughty lag raha hai.”

Maa giggled. “Naughty? Abhi toh shuru hua hai!”

She picked a mango piece, dipped it in honey until it dripped. Held it to his lips. “Chuso… taste karo achhe se. Tongue use karo.”

Papa opened mouth. Maa slid it in slowly. Honey dripped on his tongue, then chin. She leaned closer—breath on his face. “Kya taste aa raha hai? Sach bolna… jhooth pakda toh badi saza!”

Papa sucked the mango, tongue licking honey from her fingers. Moaned low. “Mmm… mango… aur teri ungliyan… bahut meethi. Soch raha tha agar yeh honey teri chut pe gira hota toh kya maza aata.”

Maa gasped dramatically. “Oho Papa ji! Itna kharab khayal? Fingers toh theek… par chut ka zikr? Saza toh banta hai! Abhi ke abhi mujhe ek deep kiss do… aur tongue se honey saaf karo.”

Papa pulled off blindfold fast. Grabbed her waist, pulled her into his lap. Kissed hard—tongue deep, licking honey from her lips. Maa moaned into his mouth. “Mmm… honey wala kiss… aur thoda aur… Papa ji, kitne bhookhe ho aaj!”

She broke the kiss, lips shiny. Turned to Chacha. “Ab tumhari baari, Devar ji. Aankhein bandh… aur muh kholo jaise acha bachcha.”

She tied the dupatta, pressing her chest against his back. “Ready? Ya darr lag raha hai ki main kuch naughty khilaungi?”
Chacha smiled. “Naughty? Bhabhi… tum toh hamesha naughty hoti ho.”

Maa laughed. “Sach bola! Reward milega… par pehle taste karo.”

She put a gbang between her own lips—made them wet and shiny. Leaned forward slowly. “Ab yeh lo… mere muh se. Dheere se… chuso.”

Chacha took the gbang—lips brushing hers, soft and slow. Tongue touched her lip. Groaned. “Gbang… aur teri lips… bahut garam. Soch raha tha agar yeh gbang teri chut ke andar hota toh kya maza aata.”

Maa pulled back, eyes wide and teasing. “Arre Devar ji! Gbang toh theek… par chut ka zikr? Yeh game mein allowed nahi! Saza: meri neck pe kiss karo… aur thoda chooso bhi. Zor se mat… beta dekh raha hai.”

Chacha leaned in. Kissed her neck softly, then sucked lightly. Maa tilted head back, sighed dramatically. “Haan… aise hi… thoda aur neeche… mmm… Devar ji, kitne ache ho tum! Bas aise hi chooso… jaise mera doodh nikal rahe ho.”
She shivered, giggled. “Ab beta ka turn!”

Maa came to me—knelt very close. Nightie slipped off one shoulder—breast almost out. She tied the dupatta gently. Fingers brushed my face. “Beta… darr mat. Maa hai na. Bas muh kholo… aur taste karo.”

Darkness. Her voice soft and teasing. “Muh kholo… dheere se. Aankhein bandh… aur socho ki main tumhe kya khila rahi hoon.”

She fed me jalebi—sticky, sweet. Syrup dripped on my lip. Her finger wiped it—then pushed inside my mouth. “Chuso achhe se… saaf karo.”

I sucked her finger. Heart pounding. “Jalebi…”

Maa giggled close to my ear. “Correct! No saza… reward milega. Aankhein kholo.”

I opened eyes. She was inches away—face close, eyes sparkling. “Reward: Maa ka special kiss. Ready?”

She leaned in—kissed my forehead long and warm. Then cheek. Then corner of my mouth—soft, quick. Her breast brushed my arm. Whispered: “Beta… kitna sweet ho tum. Aur kitna sharmila. Pasand hai na yeh game?”
I nodded fast. “Haan Maa… bahut pasand hai.”

Maa smiled naughty. “Good boy. Ab last round… sab ek saath!”

She lay back on carpet—arms above head, nightie riding up to hips. Legs apart a little. “Ab tum teeno… mujhe taste karo. Ek-ek karke. Guess karo… main kahan se geeli hoon.”

Papa went first—kissed inner thigh, tongue higher. Maa moaned playfully. “Arre Papa ji… wahan nahi… thoda aur upar… mmm… haan wahan! Kitne bhookhe ho aaj… dheere chato na… beta sharminda ho jayega!”

Chacha took her breast—sucked nipple through nightie. Maa arched. “Haan Devar ji… chooso zor se… doodh nikalne ki koshish karo! Mmm… achha lag raha hai… aur thoda bite bhi karo!”

She looked at me—eyes loving and teasing. “Beta… dekh rahe ho na? Kitna maza aa raha hai Maa ko. Tumhare Papa aur Chacha kitne ache hain… haina?”

Her hips moved slowly. Moaned louder—still playful. “Haan… dono milke… Maa ko pagal kar do! Dekho beta… yeh sab tere liye bhi hai. Jab tu ready hoga… tab tu bhi join kar sakta hai.”

When she came—body shaking, soft cry, thighs trembling—she pulled them up. Kissed them deep—tasted herself.
Then looked at me—breathless, smiling. “Beta… game maza aaya? Kal phir khelenge?”

I nodded. “Haan Maa… bahut maza aaya.”

Maa laughed—happy, warm. “Good. Ab sab so jao… warna kal subah uth nahi paoge.”

She stood—nightie still up, skin flushed. Walked to kitchen humming—hips swaying.

Papa and Chacha grinned at each other.

[Innocent_Pervert]

I couldn’t sleep. The house was quiet except for the rain tapping the roof. My room felt too hot, sheets sticking to my skin. I closed my eyes, trying to push away the day’s thoughts—Maa in her nightie during dinner, the way her breasts moved when she laughed, the small wet spot I imagined between her thighs. The honey feeling came fast, low in my belly, making my cock twitch under the blanket.

Sleep pulled me under. And the dream began.

I was in the bedroom, but it looked different—candles everywhere, flickering gold light on the walls. The big bed was in the center like an altar. Maa lay on it, naked, wrists tied loosely to the headboard with soft red cloth, legs spread wide and tied to the posts. Her body glistened with sweat and oil—breasts heavy and full, nipples dark and swollen, belly soft, thighs trembling. Her pussy was shaved smooth, lips pink and parted, already dripping onto the white sheet below her ass. 

A thin trail of wetness ran down her crack to the bed.

She looked straight at me. Eyes glassy, hungry, lips parted. Voice low and thick.

“Beta… aaja. Maa tere liye khuli hai. Aaj fertile hoon. Tere bacche ki maa banna chahti hoon. Meri chut ko phaad de. Poora cum andar daal… Maa ko pregnant kar de.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. Cock instantly rock-hard, throbbing painfully in my shorts. I stepped closer. She spread her legs wider—pussy lips opening like a flower, clit swollen and glistening.

“Dekh beta… yeh teri hai. Ab andar daal… zor se… cervix tak pahuncha… Maa ki womb bhar de.”

I climbed between her thighs. Pulled down my shorts—cock sprang free, thick, veiny, leaking at the tip. Maa moaned just seeing it.
“Kitna bada ho gaya mera beta… yeh sab Maa ke liye hai na? Aaja… phaad de mujhe.”

I grabbed her hips—fingers digging into soft flesh. Lined up and slammed in—one brutal thrust, burying myself to the balls. Her cunt was scorching hot, tight, wet, gripping me like a fist. Maa screamed—pleasure-pain.

“Aah… haan beta… poora andar… kitna mota hai tera… meri chut phaad de! Zor se thoko… Maa teri randi hai… baccha de degi tujhe… zor se!”

I pounded her mercilessly—deep, fast, balls slapping her ass wetly. Her breasts bounced wildly with every thrust. She yanked at the ties, moaning filthier.

“Haan beta… cervix tak pahuncha… wahan cum daal… Maa ki womb bhar de… pregnant kar de mujhe… tere bacche se bhari rehna chahti hoon! Zor se… thoko… meri chut ko barbaad kar de!”

Her walls clenched—squeezing me tighter. I felt her come—body shaking, pussy spasming, juices squirting around my cock, soaking my balls and the sheets. She screamed loud:

“Aah… aa rahi hoon… cum kar rahi hoon tere lund pe… beta… ab tu bhi… andar daal… poora cum… Maa ke andar!”

I couldn’t hold back. Thrust deep—one last brutal push—and exploded. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded her womb, pulse after pulse. Maa’s eyes rolled back.

“Haan… feel kar… cum andar aa raha hai… kitna garam… Maa pregnant ho gayi… tera baccha… Maa teri hai hamesha!”

But the dream didn’t stop. She begged more.

“Ab gaand mein daal beta… dono holes bhar de… Maa ko double pregnant kar de… cum karo gaand mein bhi!”

I pulled out—cock slick with her juices and my cum. Pushed into her tight ass—slow at first, then hard. She howled:
“Aah… gaand phat rahi hai… par maza aa raha hai… zor se thoko… Maa ki gaand bhi teri hai… cum karo andar… poora bhar do!”

I fucked her ass deep—slamming in, pulling out, watching her hole stretch around me. She came again—squirting from her pussy while I filled her ass. Cum overflowed, dripping down her crack, pooling on the sheet.

“Beta… poora bhar diya… Maa tere bacchon se bhari hai… ab muh mein daal… last cum Maa ke muh mein!”

I pulled out, straddled her chest. She opened her mouth wide—tongue out. I stroked fast—came again—thick spurts hitting her tongue, lips, cheeks. She swallowed greedily, moaning:

“Mmm… beta ka cum… kitna tasty… Maa sab pi legi… hamesha tere liye khuli rahegi…”

I woke up soaked. Shorts sticky, thighs wet, sheets clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame. The room was dark except for the faint streetlight slipping through the curtain. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would crack my ribs. Cum still pulsed out of me in weak spurts—cock twitching, betraying me even after the dream ended.


I lay there frozen, breathing shallow. The images wouldn’t leave. Maa tied to the bed like an offering. Her legs spread wide, pussy dripping, begging me to ruin her. “Beta… meri chut ko phaad de… poora cum andar daal… Maa ko pregnant kar de.” 

Her screams echoing in my skull. The way she squirted when I filled her. The taste of her on my tongue in the dream. The way she swallowed my last load, moaning “Maa sab pi legi… hamesha tere liye khuli rahegi…”

I felt sick. Literally sick. Stomach twisting, throat closing. I curled on my side, hugging my knees, trying to make myself small. Tears burned behind my eyes—hot, angry, ashamed. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s my Maa. The one who held me when I was scared of the dark. Who made khichdi when I was sick. Who kissed my forehead every night and said “Mera beta sabse pyara hai.” And I dreamed of breeding her? Tying her up? Fucking her like an animal? Filling her until she carried my child?

Guilt crashed over me in waves—each one heavier. I pictured her face tomorrow morning—smiling, bringing me chai, asking “Beta, neend achhi aayi?” And I’d have to look at her knowing I’d imagined her naked, bound, screaming for my cum. Knowing I came thinking of her womb full of me. Knowing part of me—deep, dark part—wanted it again.

I pressed my face into the pillow. Muffled a sob. I’m disgusting. A monster. What if she knew? What if she looked at me and saw the filth in my head? Would she still hug me? Still call me “beta”? Or would she pull away, eyes full of hurt and fear? The thought cut deeper than anything. Losing her love. Losing the only person who ever made me feel safe.

I thought of the real Maa—how she slept between Papa and Chacha, soft and trusting. How she teased them with love, not filth. How she looked at me with pride, not lust. And here I was, turning that into something dirty. Something wrong. I wanted to scrub my brain clean. Rip the dream out like a bad page.

But the honey lingered—sticky, warm, refusing to leave. Even now, cock half-hard again just remembering her moans. I hated it. Hated myself more. I punched the mattress once—hard—then froze, afraid someone heard. Tears came then—silent, burning down my cheeks. I wiped them fast. Couldn’t let anyone see. Couldn’t let Maa see.

I got up quietly. Stripped the wet shorts, threw them in the corner like they were poison. Wiped myself with a towel, hands shaking. Looked at my reflection in the small mirror on the wall—face pale, eyes red, hair messy. Looked like a stranger. A sick stranger.
I crawled back into bed—new shorts, clean side of the sheet. Curled tight. Tried to breathe slow. But every time I closed my eyes, she was there—tied, begging, coming around my cock. Guilt twisted harder. I’m sorry Maa. I’m so sorry. I don’t want this. I love you. Not like that. Not like this.

But the dream stayed. Clung. Whispered.

Morning came too soon. Sunlight through the curtain. I heard Maa in the kitchen—pots clanging, soft humming. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

I stayed in bed longer than usual. Afraid to face her. Afraid my face would show everything. Afraid she’d look at me and know.
When I finally came out, she was at the stove—saree dbangd low, blouse fitted, hair loose. She turned, smiled like always.

“Beta… uth gaya? Chai bana di hai. Aaja.”

Her voice warm. Normal. Loving.

I walked over—legs heavy. Took the cup. Hands shook a little. She noticed.

“Beta… kya hua? Neend nahi aayi?”

I looked down. Couldn’t meet her eyes. Guilt choked me. “Haan Maa… bas… sapne aaye.”

She put her hand on my cheek—soft, motherly. “Bure sapne?”

I swallowed. Nodded once.

She pulled me into a hug—gentle, warm, jasmine smell. Her breasts pressed soft against my chest. I stiffened—honey flickered, guilt stabbed harder.

“Beta… jo bhi tha, bhool ja. Maa yahan hai. Hamesha. Theek hai?”

I nodded against her shoulder. Tears threatened again. Whispered so quiet only she could hear:
“Maa… I’m sorry.”

She held me tighter. Kissed my forehead.

“Kuch bhi nahi sorry. Tu mera beta hai. Bas itna kaafi hai.”

I clung to her. Guilt still burned—deep, raw. But her arms felt like the only safe place left.

The dream didn’t leave. Not really. It hid. Waited. Whispered in quiet moments.

But Maa’s hug was louder.

[Rocky]

Welcome back, hope all is well now


Fantastic updates

[Sage_69]

Fantastic Update.

[RajV]

Very thoughtful,you have portrayed the mental state of all characters very well.
Do continue the good work.
More closer games, more fun

[Innocent_Pervert]

That evening, after dinner, the house was quiet. Dad had gone to the terrace. I sat in the living room, pretending to scroll on my phone, but my ears were tuned to the bedroom door that was slightly ajar.


Inside, Mom lay on the bed in just a thin white nightie, legs lazily crossed. Chacha was curled against her side, head on her breast, one hand gently stroking her bare thigh under the fabric. His voice was low, almost shy — the same hesitant tone he had used on the very first night years ago.

“Bhabhi… ek baat mann mein hai bahut din se. Bataun?”

Mom ran her fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “Bolo na, Devar ji. Tumhare mann mein kya hai, woh mujhko batao.”

Chacha swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Main… main chahta hoon ki main aapko market le jaun. Poori nangi sirf burqa pehen kar. Bilkul nangi. Sirf burqa. Log dekhte rahenge ki kitni sharif aurat hai… aur sirf main jaanunga ki andar meri biwi nangi ghum rahi hai.”

He buried his face deeper into her breast, voice trembling with excitement and shame. “Har kadam pe sochunga… meri Bhabhi ke nipples burqa ke andar sakht ho rahe hain. Meri Bhabhi ki chut hawa mein geeli ho rahi hai. Aur koi nahi jaanega.”

Mom’s fingers paused for a second. Then she laughed — low, delighted, genuinely thrilled.

“Arre waah, Devar ji… yeh toh bahut kinky idea hai. Bahut risky… bahut naughty.” She tilted his chin up so he could see her eyes sparkling. “Main taiyaar hoon. Kal shaam hi chalte hain Panchavati market.”

Next evening – 6:30 PM

Dad stood in the bedroom doorway, face tight with worry.

“Bilku nahi. Yeh unsafe hai. Market mein itna crowd… koi haath laga dega,  … koi photo le lega.  please. Yeh mat karo.”

Mom was already stepping into the long black burqa Chacha had brought. It was the full traditional kind — loose, floor-length, with a small mesh screen for the eyes and gloves. Nothing underneath. Not even slippers. Her bare feet touched the cool floor as she adjusted the fabric over her naked body.

She turned to Dad, voice calm but firm, the same tone she used when she decided something final.

“Papa ji, yeh kinky hai. Aur main kinky feel karna chahti hoon. Devar ji ne itna pyar se maanga hai… main unko mana nahi karungi. Tum bas ghar pe raho. Beta bhi saath jaayega — car mein baith ke dekh lega. Koi unsafe nahi hoga.”

She pulled the burqa’s front open for a second, giving both men a flash of her completely naked body underneath — heavy breasts, soft belly, trimmed pussy already glistening. Then she closed it again.

Chacha’s hands were shaking as he helped her adjust the headpiece. His voice was hoarse. “Bhabhi… thank you. Main… main aaj poora din soch raha tha ki aap nangi burqa mein mere saath chal rahi hongi.”

At the market – 7:15 PM

The evening market was crowded as usual — vegetable stalls, clothes vendors, fruit carts, people pushing past each other. The son sat in the back seat of the car parked at the edge, window slightly down, heart hammering as he watched.

Mom walked slowly beside Chacha, fully covered in the black burqa. From the outside she looked like any modest, traditional woman. Only Chacha  knew the truth.

Chacha’s hand rested lightly on her lower back through the fabric.

“Log dekh rahe hain na, Bhabhi?” he whispered, voice thick. “Sab soch rahe hain ki kitni achhi biwi hai mere saath. Aur main jaanta hoon… andar aapki chut hawa se touch ho rahi hai. Nipples burqa ke kapde se ragad rahi hain.”

Mom’s voice came muffled but amused from inside the mesh. “Haan Devar ji… bahut geeli ho gayi hoon already. Har step pe feel ho raha hai ki main nangi hoon aur koi bhi dekh sakta hai agar burqa uth jaaye.”

She stopped at a vegetable stall, bending slightly to check tomatoes. The loose burqa shifted. For a split second the front parted just enough that a cool breeze went straight between her naked thighs. She shivered visibly.

Chacha stood close behind her, pretending to help choose. His hand slipped under the side slit of the burqa for a moment — fingers brushing her bare ass cheek.

“Arre… kitni garam hai yahan,” he murmured. “Log dekh rahe hain humein… aur main aapki nangi gaand chhoo raha hoon.”

Mom straightened, voice playful even through the burqa. “Aur thoda aur chhoo lo… par dhyan se. Beta car mein baitha sab dekh raha hai.”

They moved to the clothes section. Mom picked up a saree piece, holding it up as if interested. While the shopkeeper was busy, Chacha stepped closer and whispered, “Socho… agar main abhi burqa ke andar haath daal kar aapki chut mein ungli daal doon… toh kya hoga?”

Mom’s breathing quickened inside the mesh. “Kinky lag raha hai na? Main bhi soch rahi hoon… kitna maza aa raha hai. Sab normal samajh rahe hain… aur main bilkul nangi hoon apne Devar ke saath.”

They walked for almost forty minutes. Every time a group of men passed and stared at the “modest burqa woman,”

Chacha would lean in and describe it to her. Every time wind lifted the hem slightly, Mom would let out a tiny, hidden moan only he could hear.

Finally, near the car, Mom stopped. Through the mesh her eyes found the son sitting inside, watching everything.
She lifted one gloved hand and gave a tiny wave — almost innocent.

Then she turned to Chacha and said loud enough for the son to hear through the open window:

“Ghar chalte hain, Devar ji. Aaj raat poora reward milega tumhe… kyuki tumhari yeh fantasy ne mujhko bahut kinky bana diya hai.”

She got into the car still wearing the burqa. 

Chacha drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on her thigh through the loose fabric. Every few seconds his fingers would slip under the side slit, brushing bare skin, confirming she was still completely naked underneath. He didn't speak much; he didn't need to. The occasional low groan when his thumb grazed higher said enough.


From the back seat, I watched everything. Mom never once turned to look at me. Her eyes — the only part visible through the mesh — stayed forward, calm, almost distant.

Dad was waiting at the gate when they pulled in, arms crossed, face a mix of relief and lingering worry.

As soon as the car stopped, Mom stepped out gracefully. The burqa swayed around her ankles, hiding everything. She walked straight past Dad without a word, into the house.

Inside the living room, she finally stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and lifted the burqa over her head in one smooth motion.

The black fabric pooled at her feet.

She stood there completely nude — skin flushed from the evening heat and excitement, nipples hard and dark, a visible sheen of arousal between her thighs, pussy lips swollen and glistening. No shame, no hurry to cover up. She just stood, letting the cool AC air hit her bare body.

Dad's eyes widened. Chacha's breath caught audibly.

Mom looked at Chacha first, voice soft but commanding.

“Devar ji… yeh sab tumhare liye tha. Ab reward time hai.”

She turned slightly toward Dad.

“Papa ji, tum worried the na? Ab dekh lo — bilkul safe thi. Aur kitna maza aaya. Tum bhi join karo… par pehle dekh lo kitni geeli ho gayi hoon bas burqa ke andar rehne se.”

She walked to the sofa, sat down with legs parted casually, one hand trailing down her belly to rest just above her mound — not touching yet, just teasing.

Chacha dropped to his knees in front of her instantly, face between her thighs before anyone could speak. His tongue went straight to work — long, hungry licks, tasting how wet the public risk had made her.
Mom moaned low, head falling back.

“Haan… aise hi… market mein soch rahi thi ki agar burqa thoda uth jaaye toh sab dekh lenge… par tumhare haath ne mujhe sambhal liya.”

Dad hesitated for a second — still processing — then moved behind the sofa. He leaned over, cupping her heavy breasts from behind, thumbs circling her nipples.

“Tu sach mein pagal hai,” he muttered, but his voice was thick with arousal. “Par yeh dekh ke… main bhi pagal ho ja raha hoon.”

Mom laughed breathlessly, reaching one hand back to stroke Dad's cheek.

“Papa ji… aaj raat sirf hum teeno. Beta ko bol do jaake so jaaye. Yeh sirf humare liye hai.”

She glanced toward the doorway where the son still stood, frozen.

“Beta… jaa so ja. Kal subah chai bana dena.”

No softness. No invitation. Just dismissal.

Chacha lifted his head briefly, lips shiny with her juices.

“Bhabhi… ab andar daalna hai. Poora raat bhar.”

Mom pulled him up by his shirt, guiding his cock to her entrance while Dad kept playing with her breasts.

“Haan… daal do. Zor se. Aaj mujhe poora bhar do… market ka reward.”

She sank down onto Chacha in one slow motion, taking him deep, then started riding — slow at first, then faster, breasts bouncing in Dad's hands.

The sounds filled the room — wet slapping, moans, Chacha's grateful whispers of “thank you Bhabhi… thank you meri jaan.”

Dad moved to her mouth, feeding her his cock while she rode. She took him eagerly, humming around him.

I watched from the shadows of the hallway for a few more minutes — hard, aching, completely ignored — before quietly turning away to his room.

In the bedroom, Mom came hard twice more — once on Chacha's cock, once with both men switching places — screaming their names, body shaking.

When they finally collapsed in a sweaty tangle, Mom lay between them, still naked, one leg dbangd over Chacha, head on Dad's chest.

She whispered sleepily, “Kal phir market jaana hai… par is baar thoda aur risky. Shayad burqa ke neeche sirf nipple clamps pehen ke.”

Chacha groaned in happy exhaustion. Dad chuckled weakly.

“Tu nahi sudhregi.”

Mom smiled into the dark.

“Nahi sudharna hai”

Next morning  was humid. The ceiling fan whirred lazily above the dining table where Dad sat with his chai, newspaper open but unread. His eyes kept flicking toward the kitchen doorway, still processing last night’s events — the burqa, the market, the way Mom had come home dripping and demanding, then fucked both him and Chacha senseless while barely acknowledging the son watching from the shadows.


Mom emerged first, fresh from her bath, wearing nothing but a thin, damp cotton saree wrapped low on her hips. Just the pallu loosely dbangd over one shoulder, barely covering her heavy breasts. Water droplets still clung to her collarbone and the undersides of her tits. She moved with deliberate laziness, hips swaying, knowing exactly what the sight did to him.

Chacha followed a minute later, shirtless, pajama low on his waist, hair still wet, a satisfied grin he couldn’t hide.
Mom poured tea for Dad first, leaning over the table so the pallu slipped just enough to let one boob peek out. She didn’t fix it.

“Papa ji… kal raat achha laga na?” she asked sweetly, voice dripping honey. “Maine notice kiya, jab Devar ji mujhe market se leke aaye aur main burqa utaar ke nangi khadi thi… tumhara lund kitna jaldi khada ho gaya tha.”

Dad cleared his throat, cheeks reddening. “Haan… par risky tha. Main bas—”

Mom cut him off with a soft laugh, sitting sideways on his lap so her bare thigh pressed against his crotch. She could feel him twitch instantly.

“Risky? Arre Papa ji, risky toh Devar ji ka idea tha. Aur kitna kinky tha woh. Socho… main poori nangi, sirf burqa pehen ke, market mein ghum rahi thi. Log soch rahe the ‘kitni sharif aurat hai’… aur andar meri chut hawa se chhoo rahi thi, nipples burqa ke kapde se ragad rahe the. Har kadam pe soch rahi thi — agar burqa uth jaaye toh sab dekh lenge ki main kya pehni hoon… yaani kuch nahi pehni.”

She rocked subtly on his lap, grinding just enough to make him groan.

“Devar ji ne poora time mujhe whisper kiya — ‘Bhabhi, log dekh rahe hain… aur main jaanta hoon aapki gaand kitni garam hai andar.’ Aur main geeli ho gayi thi itni ki juice meri thighs pe tapak raha tha. Tum toh bas ghar pe baith ke worry kar rahe the… par Devar ji ne mujhe itna tease kiya ki main wahan hi cum karne wali thi.”

Dad’s hands gripped her waist instinctively. “Bas Karo ab..Beta sun raha hai.”

Mom glanced toward me. She didn’t lower her voice.

“Beta sun raha hai toh kya? Woh kal car mein sab dekh raha tha. Aur jaanta hai uske Chacha ji kitne kinky hain. Unhone mujhe bola tha — ‘Bhabhi, agle baar nipple clamps pehen ke chalna market mein… main pull karunga chain se jab log dekh rahe honge.’ Kitna naughty hai na tumhara chhota bhai?”

Chacha, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own chai, smirked. “Bhabhi… main toh bas soch raha tha aapko kitna maza aayega. Aur aaya na?”

Mom turned her head toward him, eyes sparkling. “Bahut aaya, Devar ji. Itna ki raat ko maine tum dono ko ek saath liya… par dil mein soch rahi thi — yeh sab tumhare us kinky dimag ki wajah se hua.”

She leaned forward, pressing her bare breasts against Dad’s chest through the thin saree, lips near his ear.

“Papa ji… tum toh hamesha safe-safe khelte ho. ‘Yeh mat karo, woh mat karo.’ Par Devar ji? Woh mujhe nanga burqa pehna ke market le gaye aur mujhe itna garam kar diya ki main wahan khadi reh ke ungli se khud ko chhodne wali thi.

Kitna bada difference hai na — bada bhai safe, chhota bhai mei.”

Dad’s breathing was ragged now, hands sliding up her bare back under the pallu.

“Tu jaan bujh kar mujhe jalati hai.”

Mom laughed softly, grinding down harder on his growing erection.

“Haan jalati hoon. Kyunki mujhe pasand hai jab tum jealous hote ho… aur phir mujhe zor se chodte ho. Par sach bataun? Kal Devar ji ne jo kiya — woh mujhe bahut zyada excite karta hai. Unka yeh fetish… nangi aurat ko public mein cover karke ghumana… yeh toh alag level ka thrill hai. Tum bhi try karoge na kabhi?”

She stood up suddenly, letting the pallu fall completely so her breasts were fully exposed to both men. She walked to Chacha, pressed her naked body against him, and kissed him deep — tongue sliding in slow, wet circles.

When she broke the kiss, she looked back at Dad over her shoulder.

“Papa ji… aaj dopahar mein Chacha ji mujhe phir market le jayenge. Is baar thoda aur kinky — shayad burqa ke andar remote vibrator. Tum ghar pe rehna… aur sochna ki main kitni zor se moan kar rahi hoongi aur koi nahi sun pa raha. Phir shaam ko jab wapas aaungi… tum dono mujhe saath mein le sakte ho.”

She patted Chacha’s cheek affectionately.

“Devar ji, taiyaar raho. Aaj mei tumhari sari fetish ko poora kar dugi.”

Dad groaned, head falling back against the chair. “Tu sach mein pagal hai.”

Mom smiled wickedly, walking toward the bedroom — hips swaying, completely naked now, saree left in a puddle on the floor.

“Pagalpan pasand hai na tum dono ko? Toh aaj raat dekhna… kitna pagalpan karungi main.”

I stayed silent at the table, untouched chai growing cold, while Mom disappeared into the bedroom with Chacha following close behind — already hard again.

Dad sat there a moment longer, then stood, adjusting himself with a sigh.

“Chalo… main bhi dekhta hoon kitna kinky ban sakta hai yeh din.”

The house filled with the soft sounds of anticipation — and Mom’s low, teasing laughter echoing from the bedroom.

[Sage_69]

Super. She is becoming an irresistible slut.

[Innocent_Pervert]

The afternoon sun was still high when Chacha came up with the idea.


He’d been restless all morning—pacing the living room, checking his phone, glancing toward the bedroom where Maa was folding laundry in her usual cotton house saree (pale green, low-dbang, short-sleeved blouse that hugged her breasts just enough to remind everyone she rarely bothered with a bra at home). 

Dad sat at the dining table pretending to read the newspaper, but his eyes kept drifting to her every time she bent to pick something from the lower shelf.

Chacha finally stopped pacing, leaned against the kitchen doorway, and spoke low enough that only Dad could hear.

“Bhaiya… aaj kuch naya try karein?”

Dad lowered the paper an inch. “Kya?”

Chacha’s voice dropped further—half whisper, half dare. “Tailor ko bula lein. Blouse ki fitting ke bahane. Main jaanta hoon woh aata hai jab hum ghar pe hote hain. Aaj… uske saamne thoda… dikhlaayein Bhabhi ko.”

Dad’s fingers tightened on the newspaper edges. “Pagal ho gaye ho? Woh aadmi pura mohalle mein ghoomta hai. Agar kuch galat laga toh?”

Chacha smiled—slow, knowing. “Galat nahi lagega. Bas thoda… slip hoga pallu, thoda blouse tight. Woh measure karega… aur hum dono yahin baith ke dekhenge. Touch nahi karne denge usse. Sirf dekhne denge. Jaise woh sapne mein bhi nahi soch sakta.”

Dad’s jaw worked. He glanced toward Maa—she was humming softly, unaware of the conversation yet. His cock twitched at the thought—tailor’s hands near her skin, tape brushing her curves, while he and Chacha watched from the shadows.

“Risky hai,” Dad muttered.

Chacha stepped closer. “Risky hi toh maza hai, bhaiya. Bhabhi ko bhi pasand aayega. Kal raat unhone kaha tha na… ‘kuch naya karte hain’. Yeh naya hai.”

Dad exhaled through his nose—half surrender, half hunger.

“Theek hai. Par agar kuch galat hua toh…”

Chacha grinned. “Kuch nahi hoga. Main handle kar lunga.”

He pulled out his phone, texted the tailor right then.

“Ramesh ji, aaj shaam 4 baje ghar aana. Bhabhi ko nayi blouse ki fitting chahiye. Kapda humare paas hai.”

Reply came in 30 seconds: “Ji sahab, bilkul. 4 baje pahunch jaunga.”

Maa heard the ping from the kitchen, looked up.

“Kya ho raha hai?”

Chacha walked over, casual as ever, put an arm around her waist from behind—hand resting low on her belly.

“Bhabhi… tailor ko bula liya hai. Nayi blouse ke liye. Aaj fitting karwa lete hain.”

Maa’s eyebrow lifted. She turned in his arms, looked from Chacha to Dad.

“Tailor? Aaj?”

Dad cleared his throat. “Haan. Socha… ghar pe hi ho jaaye.”

She studied them both—saw the tension in Dad’s shoulders, the glint in Chacha’s eyes.

A slow smile curved her lips.

“Accha? Aur tum dono… kya karoge jab woh aayega?”

Chacha’s hand slid lower—cupped her ass lightly over the saree.

“Hum dekhenge. Bas dekhenge. Aur tum… thoda dikhlaogi—pallu thoda loose, blouse thoda tight.”

Maa inhaled sharply—nipples hardening under the thin blouse.

Dad stood up, walked over, voice low.

“Scared hoon main,” he admitted. “Par… chahta bhi hoon dekhna. Us aadmi ko pareshan hote hue. Jaante hue ki woh kabhi haath nahi laga sakega. Sirf hum laga sakte hain.”

Maa looked between them—two men who owned every inch of her, now asking permission to share just the view.
She stepped back, let the pallu slip off one shoulder on purpose—blouse stretched tight across her breasts.

“Theek hai,” she whispered. “Par rules meri taraf se.”

She held up one finger.

“Woh touch karega sirf tape se—measurement ke liye. Koi haath nahi. Koi galat baat nahi.”

Second finger.

“Tum dono yahin baithoge—drawing room mein. Door khula rahega bedroom ka. Dekh sakte ho sab kuch. Par andar mat aana jab tak main na bulaun.”

Third finger.

“Aur beta… agar ghar pe hua toh uska kamra band rahega. Woh nahi dekhega.”

Dad and Chacha nodded—quick, hungry.

Maa smiled—small, wicked.

“Ab taiyaar ho jao. Main change kar ke aati hoon.”

She disappeared into the bedroom.


When she returned at 3:55, the transformation was subtle but devastating.

She’d kept the pale-green saree but changed the blouse—a thinner, older one, almost sheer in the afternoon light, sleeves short, neckline deep enough that the upper swell of her breasts pushed against the fabric. No bra. Pallu loosely dbangd—ready to slip at the slightest movement.

She walked into the drawing room barefoot, anklets chiming softly.

Dad and Chacha were already seated on the sofa—side by side, hands on knees, trying to look casual.

She stood in front of them, turned once—slow circle.
“Pasand aaya?”

Dad’s voice was rough. “Bahut.”

Chacha licked his lips. “Tailor ka dil nikal jaayega.”

The doorbell rang.

Maa took a deep breath—nipples visibly peaking under the thin blouse.

She walked to the door, opened it.

Ramesh Uncle stepped in—same faded shirt, measuring tape around neck, polite smile.

“Bhabhi ji… namaste.”

“Aao andar, Ramesh ji.”

She led him to the bedroom—door left wide open so the sofa had a clear view.

Dad and Chacha sat rigid—eyes locked on the doorway.

Maa stood in front of the full-length mirror.

“Shuru karo,” she said softly.

Ramesh spread the maroon silk blouse piece on the bed, took out his tape.

“Pehle shoulder…”

He came close—tape across her shoulders, fingers brushing bare skin where the blouse sleeve ended.

Maa lifted her arms slightly—blouse pulled tight, breasts lifting, nipples outlined clearly through the thin cotton.
Ramesh’s hands shook.

Dad gripped the sofa cushion hard.

Chacha’s breathing grew audible.

“Bust measurement…” Ramesh whispered.

He wrapped the tape around her chest—tape pressing into the soft undercurve of her breasts.

Maa arched her back just a fraction—breasts pushing forward.

The top hook of the blouse strained… then popped open.
One breast spilled free—heavy, full, nipple dark and erect.

Ramesh froze—tape still around her, face inches from her bare skin.

Maa looked at their reflection in the mirror—his stunned eyes, her calm face.
“Oops,” she said softly. “Hook khul gaya.”

She took her time—fingers slowly lifting the fabric, brushing her own nipple as she re-hooked it. The movement made it pebble harder.

Ramesh’s breathing was loud now—almost panting.

Dad’s knuckles were white on the cushion.

Chacha shifted—cock visibly hard in his trousers.

Maa continued as if nothing happened.

“Waist bhi kar lo.”

Ramesh wrapped the tape around her midriff—hands trembling so badly the tape slipped twice. Each time his fingers grazed her bare skin under the saree fold.

She bent forward slightly “to help”—ass pushing back toward him, saree pulling tight across both cheeks, cleft shadowed but visible.

He was sweating openly—forehead glistening.

“Hips…” she prompted.

He knelt—face level with her hips—wrapped the tape around the fullest part.
His breath ghosted over her lower belly.

She parted her legs a fraction—just enough that he could see the faint outline of her panties through the saree if he looked down.

He looked.

Dad groaned low—first sound.

Chacha’s hand moved to his crotch—squeezed once, hard.

Maa glanced toward the doorway—saw them both watching, eyes dark, bodies tense.

She smiled—tiny, secret.

“Bas ho gaya?” she asked Ramesh sweetly.

He nodded mutely—face red, trousers tented obviously.

She paid him, thanked him, walked him to the door—pallu slipping again on the way, giving him one last glimpse of side-boob.

Door shut.

Silence.

Then she turned—walked back to the living room.

Kurti still open at the front—blouse hooks loose again, breasts bare from the upper half down.

She stood between Dad and Chacha—legs slightly parted.

“Ab tum dono ne sab dekha,” she whispered.

“Tailor ka haath yahan tak aaya tha…” She traced the line under her breast where the tape had pressed.
“…aur yahan tak.” She slid her hand down her belly, over her saree-covered mound.

“Par andar nahi gaya.”

She looked down at them—two men who’d watched every second, cocks straining, eyes hungry.

She Laugher and later went to bed.

Next Morning

The chai had gone cold on the table, cups untouched after the first sip. Maa still sat naked between them, legs crossed loosely, one foot brushing Dad’s shin under the table, the other resting lightly against Chacha’s knee. The morning light caught the faint sheen of sweat and dried cum on her inner thighs—silent proof of last night’s intensity.


Dad broke the quiet first. His voice came out rough, almost reluctant.

“Yaar… main sach mein darr raha hoon.”

He set his cup down carefully, as if afraid the small sound might shatter something fragile.

“Kal raat jo hua… woh bahut risky tha. Ramesh jaise aadmi mohalle mein har ghar jaata hai. Agar usne kisi se baat ki—ek baar bhi ‘Bhabhi ji ke ghar mein aaj kuch alag tha’ bola—toh log poochne lagenge. Aur agar beta sun liya, ya koi door ka rishtedaar… phir kya?”

Chacha leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his bare chest, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Bhaiya, aap hamesha darrte ho. Par yeh darr hi toh maza deta hai. Socho—Ramesh abhi bhi so raha hoga, sapne mein Bhabhi ke boobs dekh raha hoga, tape haath mein pakde hue. Aur usse pata bhi nahi ki woh sirf dekh sakta tha. Asli maza toh hum le rahe hain.”

Maa listened to both without interrupting. Her fingers traced slow, absent circles around one nipple—making it pebble again under their gaze.

She looked at Dad—really looked—eyes soft but unflinching.

“Papa ji… tumhara darr mujhe pasand hai. Kyunki woh sachcha hai. Tum mujhe protect karna chahte ho. Par yeh bhi sach hai—mujhe yeh thrill chahiye. Tailor ke saamne khadi hoke… jab uska tape meri nipples pe laga… main soch rahi thi ki tum dono darwaze pe khade ho, dekh rahe ho. Woh darr, woh excitement—sab ek saath andar jal raha tha.”
Dad swallowed hard. His hand moved under the table—rested on her thigh, not grabbing, just holding. Warm. Possessive.

“Main jaanta hoon tu strong hai,” he said quietly. “Par main weak hoon jab baat teri izzat ki aati hai. Agar kuch galat hua toh… main bardasht nahi kar paunga.”

Chacha reached across, placed his hand on her other thigh—higher, fingers brushing the edge of her still-sensitive pussy lips.

“Bhaiya, yeh izzat ka sawaal nahi. Yeh hamara secret hai. Log dekh sakte hain, soch sakte hain, fantasize kar sakte hain—par asli cheez sirf humare paas hai. Bhabhi sirf humare liye khulti hai. Baaki sab sirf tamasha dekh rahe hain.”

Maa’s breathing deepened. She uncrossed her legs slowly—let them fall open just enough that both men could see how wet she still was, how her folds glistened in the morning light.

“Tum dono bilkul sahi ho,” she whispered. “Papa ji ka darr… mujhe aur garam karta hai. Devar ji ki excitement… mujhe aur bold bana deti hai. Yeh dono saath mein… perfect hai.”

She leaned forward—breasts resting on the table edge, nipples brushing the cool wood.

“Aaj subah ek chhota sa game khelte hain. Tum dono mujhe chhoo sakte ho… bas ek ungli se. Jahan chaaho. Par andar nahi daalna. Jo mujhe sabse zyada der tak chup rakhega—matlab jo mujhe moan nahi karwayega—woh jeetega. Uske baad main uske liye poori subah khuli rahungi. Dusra… sirf dekh sakta hai.”

Dad’s eyes darkened—fear and hunger twisting together.

Chacha grinned—pure excitement.

“Main pehle try karta hoon,” Chacha said immediately.

Dad nodded—slow, reluctant, but unable to say no.

Maa stood up—walked around the table, bent over it with elbows on the wood, ass pushed back toward them, legs spread shoulder-width.

“Shuru karo,” she breathed.

“Par yaad rakhna… jo jeetega… woh mujhe isi table pe chod sakta hai. Baaki sirf dekh sakta hai.”

Dad moved first—stood behind her, one finger tracing the curve of her ass cheek, then sliding along her slit—slow, gentle, collecting her wetness.

Chacha came to her side—finger circling her left nipple, then pinching lightly.

Maa inhaled sharply—back arching—but no sound escaped.

Dad’s finger pressed against her clit—slow circles.

Chacha’s mouth hovered near her ear—hot breath on her neck—while his finger trailed down her spine, stopping just above her asshole, teasing without entering.

Minutes stretched.

Her breathing grew ragged—hips twitching, thighs trembling—but she bit her lip, swallowed every moan.
Dad’s finger moved faster on her clit—precise, relentless.

Chacha cheated slightly—blew a hot breath directly onto her neck, then whispered:
“Bhabhi… kal raat jab tailor ne tumhari chut ke paas muh kiya tha… main soch raha tha ki agar woh andar daal deta toh kya hota.”

The words hit her like a spark.
A tiny whimper escaped—barely audible, but enough.
Both men froze.

Maa opened her eyes—pupils blown wide.

“Devar ji… jeet gaye phir se,” she whispered, voice shaky with need.

Dad groaned—half frustration, half arousal.

Chacha didn’t waste time.

He pulled her up, turned her around, lifted her onto the table—legs spread wide, pussy open and dripping.
Dad watched—hands clenched, cock straining against his lungi—as Chacha freed himself, positioned at her entrance, and slid in slowly—one long, deep thrust.

Maa’s head fell back—moan loud now, unrestrained.

“Haan… Devar ji… poora andar… zor se.”

Chacha began moving—slow at first, then harder—table creaking under them.

Dad stepped closer—hands on her breasts, thumbs circling nipples, mouth on her neck.

“Sirf humare liye,” he growled against her skin. “Sirf humare.”

Maa came first—body shaking, pussy clenching around Chacha, cry echoing in the quiet morning house.

Chacha followed—deep inside, groaning her name, filling her again.

Dad waited—then pulled her off the table, turned her around, bent her over again, entered her from behind while she was still dripping with Chacha’s cum.

“Ab meri baari,” he said—voice possessive, thrusts deep and claiming.

Maa pushed back eagerly—moans turning to cries.

“Papa ji… zor se… mujhe bhar do… poora.”

He did—hard, relentless—until he came with a guttural sound, adding to the mess inside her.
When they collapsed—three bodies tangled on the floor now—Maa lay between them, legs still spread, cum leaking slowly onto her thighs.

She reached up—cupped Dad’s face with one hand, Chacha’s with the other.

“Tum dono ka darr aur excitement… yeh dono saath mein mujhe poora karte hain. Sham ko tailor ke paas jaungi blouse lene. Akeli. Par fikar mat karo—main sirf dekhne dungi usse. Asli cheez… sirf tum dono ke liye.”

Dad exhaled—fear still there, but softened.

Chacha grinned—excitement undimmed.

Maa smiled—calm, satisfied, completely in control.

The chai was stone cold.

But none of them moved to reheat it.

Visit to Tailor

Maa left the house around 4:30 p.m. — simple cream saree, low dbang, short-sleeved blouse that hugged her curves just enough to remind anyone looking that she rarely bothered with a bra at home. She carried only her purse and a small cloth bag with the maroon silk piece Ramesh had stitched.


Dad watched her from the window as she walked down the lane toward the market. His fingers gripped the curtain edge.

“She’ll be fine,” Chacha said from the sofa, but even his usual grin was tighter today. “Woh jaanti hai control kaise rakhna hai.”

Dad didn’t answer. He just stared until she turned the corner.

Maa reached Ramesh’s small tailoring shop in the market’s quieter lane — a narrow storefront with a single sewing machine visible through the half-open shutter, bolts of fabric stacked on shelves, a fan creaking overhead. The sign outside read “Ramesh Tailors – Ladies & Gents Specialist” in faded red paint.

She pushed the door open; a small bell jingled.

Ramesh looked up from his machine — needle pausing mid-stitch. His eyes widened for half a second before he stood quickly, wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Bhabhi ji… aap aa gayi. Blouse ready hai.”

He gestured to a plastic-wrapped hanger on the rack — the maroon silk blouse, neatly folded.

Maa smiled — polite, calm, the same smile she gave everyone in the mohalla.

“Fitting check kar len? Ghar pe try karne se pehle.”

Ramesh swallowed. “Ji… bilkul. Andar chaliye, trial room mein.”

The “trial room” was just a curtained corner at the back — a small space with a full-length mirror on one wall, a wooden stool, and a hook for clothes. The curtain was thin cotton, not fully opaque; light passed through it easily.
Maa stepped inside. Ramesh followed, then hesitated.

“Main bahar wait karoon?”

Maa shook her head. “Nahi Ramesh ji. Aapko hi check karna hai. Aapne banaya hai.”

She turned her back to him, facing the mirror.

“Blouse pehenne mein madad kar denge?”

Ramesh’s hands shook as he took the hanger. He removed the plastic, held the blouse up.

Maa reached behind her back — unhooked the existing blouse slowly, one hook at a time. The fabric parted down her spine. She let it slide off her shoulders, fall to the floor.

Now topless — breasts bare, nipples already tightening in the slightly cooler air inside the shop.

Ramesh stared at her reflection in the mirror — eyes wide, breathing shallow.

She lifted her arms slightly. “Dijiye.”

He stepped closer — close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. He helped her slip her arms into the sleeves, then stood behind her to hook it from the back.

His fingers brushed her bare skin with every hook — trembling, clumsy. When he reached the middle hook, his knuckles grazed the side of her breast. He froze.

Maa didn’t flinch. She just looked at their reflection — his flushed face over her shoulder, her calm eyes meeting his in the glass.

“Thoda tight hai,” she said softly. “Aap check karo na… front se.”

She turned to face him.

The blouse was fitted perfectly — deep neckline, short sleeves, silk clinging to her curves. Her nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric.

Ramesh’s gaze dropped — couldn’t help it.

She lifted her arms again — slow stretch. The blouse pulled taut; the outline of her areolas showed faintly through the silk.

“Back bhi check karo,” she said, turning again.

He stepped behind her — hands hovering, then gently smoothing the fabric down her back. His palms rested on her waist for a second longer than necessary.

She arched slightly — breasts pushing forward in the mirror, ass pressing back just enough to brush his crotch.
He inhaled sharply — cock hardening against his trousers, obvious now.

Maa glanced down at the bulge in the mirror reflection — then up at his face.

“Fitting theek hai na?” she asked innocently.

Ramesh’s voice cracked. “Ji… bilkul perfect, Bhabhi ji.”

She smiled — small, knowing.

“Theek hai. Abhi payment kar deti hoon.”

She bent to pick up her old blouse from the floor — ass pushed out, saree pulling tight across both cheeks, cleft visible in shadow.

Ramesh stared — openly now, no hiding it.

She straightened, handed him the money — fingers brushing his palm deliberately.

“Thank you, Ramesh ji. Bahut acchi stitching hai.”

She walked past him — pallu slipping off one shoulder as she passed, giving him one last glimpse of side-boob.
The bell jingled again as she left.

Back home, the sun had dipped lower. Dad and Chacha were waiting in the living room — Dad pacing, Chacha sitting with legs spread, both visibly tense.

Maa stepped inside, kicked off her sandals, and walked straight to them — saree still perfect, but pallu now deliberately loose.

She stood in front of the sofa.
“Blouse le aayi,” she said softly.

Then she began unpinning the pallu — slowly, letting it fall to the floor.

Blouse underneath — the new maroon one, silk shimmering.

She unhooked the first hook.

“Usne fitting check ki,” she whispered. “Maine purani blouse utari… uske saamne. Usne naya blouse pehnaya. Uske haath meri peeth pe the… har hook lagate waqt meri skin ko chhoo rahe the.”

Second hook.
“Jab maine arms upar kiye… blouse tight ho gaya. Nipples saaf dikh rahe the silk ke andar. Woh dekh raha tha mirror mein… aankhein nahi hata pa raha tha.”

Third hook.
“Phir maine bend kiya… purani blouse uthane ke liye. Saree tight ho gayi… gaand ka shape uske saamne tha. Woh peeche se dekh raha tha… lund khada ho gaya tha uska.”

She unhooked the last one — blouse fell open.

Breasts bare, nipples hard and flushed.

Dad’s breathing was ragged. Chacha’s hand was already inside his pajama.

Maa stepped closer — between their knees.

“Usne kuch nahi kiya,” she continued. “Bas dekha. Haath kaanp rahe the. Aur main… main soch rahi thi ki tum dono ghar pe wait kar rahe ho. Yeh sab sirf tumhare liye hai.”

She knelt between them — hands on their thighs.
“Ab batao… kaun pehle mujhe chodega?”

Dad reached for her first — pulled her onto his lap, mouth on her neck, hands squeezing her breasts.
Chacha moved behind — fingers sliding between her thighs from the back, finding her already dripping.
Maa moaned — long, low, satisfied.

“Haan… dono se… zor se.”

Dad entered her from the front — slow, deep.

Chacha’s fingers teased her clit while Dad thrust.

She came quickly — shaking, crying out, pussy clenching around Dad.

Chacha took his turn next — bent her over the sofa arm, entered from behind while Dad watched, stroking himself.
“Devar ji… poora andar… bhar do mujhe.”

He did — hard, fast — groaning as he filled her.

When they collapsed — three bodies tangled again — Maa lay between them, legs spread, cum leaking slowly.
She looked at Dad — then Chacha.
 
“Subah… jab tum dono ne mujhe table pe choda tha… main soch rahi thi ki tailor abhi bhi sapne mein meri chut dekh raha hoga. Par asli cheez… sirf tumhare paas hai.”

Dad pulled her close — fear still there, but quieter now.

Chacha kissed her shoulder.

“Agla dare kya hoga, Bhabhi?”
Maa smiled — lazy, satisfied.
“Jaldi pata chal jaayega.”
She closed her eyes.
The house was quiet again.
But the air still hummed with what was coming next.

[shanka56789]

This is crazy stuff bro, just loving the story. Keep giving regular updates and hope you continue this story for long time.

Just one suggestion - keep the story among 3 of them + son. Lets not include some third person. Its just a suggestion.

Thanks bro for this story. Please provide regular updates as you are doing now.