20-04-2025, 08:58 PM
The Sharma bungalow woke with the dawn, its marble halls bathed in soft gold as sunlight filtered through arched windows, the scent of jasmine and fresh chai drifting from the gardens and kitchen. Rukhsar stood at the balcony of Aditi’s pink-walled room, her tiny 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, curves pronounced despite her smallness—wrapped in a borrowed robe, her damp braids loose from last night’s shower with Aditi. The cropped tank top and high-waisted denim shorts she’d worn, now folded on the bed, had clung to her petite body, turning simple clothes seductive, her plump ass and small breasts popping, a quiet allure that fueled the MP’s obsession—her, or a look-alike ghost from that farmhouse night a month ago, when he’d taken her virginity, her pussy bleeding under his thrusts, her cries lost in silk. Aditi’s 18-year-old warmth, her sisterly bond sealed in laughter and shared lassi, was Rukhsar’s anchor, a light in her hellish past: the orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the chamber’s cum-soaked table.
Aditi bustled below, her college blazer crisp, her navy skirt swaying, her ponytail bouncing as she slung a backpack over her shoulder, her 10th-class energy infectious. “Rukhsar, I’m off to college!” she called, waving from the courtyard, her smile bright, oblivious to the MP’s orders whispered to Rukhsar in the night—Wear her uniform. Come to my room. Dawn, no one sees. Rukhsar waved back, her heart twisting, Aditi’s innocence a treasure she’d protect, even as she obeyed the MP to secure her place, the Sharma name her shield. “Have fun!” she shouted, her voice soft, her small hands gripping the balcony rail, her eyes following Aditi’s cycle until it vanished down the bougainvillea-lined drive, the household staff too busy with morning tasks to notice her.
Rukhsar slipped back into the room, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, her robe falling as she moved to Aditi’s wardrobe, her pulse quickening. The MP’s command was clear, his obsession—her tiny body, her look-alike face, her pussy’s grip—a fire she’d stoked to escape Salma, to claim control. She opened a drawer, her fingers trembling as she lifted Aditi’s bra—white cotton, simple, slightly too big for Rukhsar’s small breasts, its straps soft from wear. She slipped it on, the fabric loose but snug enough, her nipples faintly visible, red from his bites, pressing against the cotton. Next, Aditi’s panties—matching white, a touch stretched, hugging Rukhsar’s plump ass, the crotch brushing her tender pussy, still sore from his cock, a shiver running through her as she adjusted them, her small stature making the plain underwear sensual, a forbidden tease.
She found the white college uniform—Aditi’s spare, neatly folded, a crisp shirt and pleated navy skirt. Rukhsar unhooked the bra briefly, pulling the shirt over her head, its buttons straining slightly over her breasts, the fabric sheer enough to hint at her bra’s outline, her narrow waist accentuated. She stepped into the skirt, zipping it tight, the hem hitting mid-thigh, shorter on her petite frame, her ass lifting the fabric, her thighs exposed, the uniform transforming her into a vision of Aditi’s innocence laced with her own seductive edge. She re-fastened the bra, her fingers lingering, the panties dampening faintly—not lust, but the thrill of her mission, her control over the MP’s hunger, her Sharma name a prize won through cunning.
Rukhsar braided her hair quickly, mimicking Aditi’s style, her reflection in the mirror a shock—her heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a look-alike ghost the MP chased, her tiny body making the uniform a fantasy, not skimpy but devastatingly sexy, every curve popping, her smallness a weapon. She slipped on Aditi’s white socks, too big but rolled down, and stole a glance at the room—pink posters, fairy lights, Lata’s voice fading as she turned off the speaker, her heart pounding. The household was quiet, the MP’s wife at her morning puja, his son gone to court, the staff in the kitchens. Rukhsar moved, silent as a shadow, her small feet padding down the marble corridor, the uniform’s skirt swishing, her panties rubbing her pussy with each step, her bra chafing her nipples, a reminder of his teeth, his cum, his obsession.
The Tease in the MP’s Bedroom
The Sharma bungalow stirred with dawn’s gentle hum, its marble halls aglow with soft sunlight spilling through arched windows, the air laced with jasmine from the gardens and the warm, spiced scent of morning chai brewing in the kitchens. Rukhsar stood on the balcony of Aditi’s pink-walled bedroom, a teenage sanctuary of Bollywood posters, fairy lights, and Lata Mangeshkar’s soulful melodies fading from a Bluetooth speaker. Her tiny 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, curves popping despite her smallness—was wrapped in a fluffy robe, her damp braids loose from last night’s shower with Aditi, their sisterly laughter and shared mango lassi a glowing memory, echoing the wholesome warmth of Jaipur’s lakes or Sanjana’s house. Beneath the robe, her skin bore faint marks—nipples red from the MP’s bites, a bruise on her thigh from his grip, her pussy tender from his cock’s relentless pounding on the chamber’s teak table, his cum flooding her, sealing her whispered vow: Save me from Salma, from Goa. The Sharma name was her shield, Aditi’s 18-year-old innocence her anchor, her hellish past—orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where he’d taken her virginity—fading in this new dawn.
Below, Aditi bustled in the courtyard, her college blazer crisp, navy skirt swishing, ponytail bouncing as she slung a backpack over her shoulder, her 10th-class energy a burst of sunlight. “Rukhsar, off to college!” she called, waving, her smile radiant, oblivious to the MP’s late-night orders whispered to Rukhsar as he stroked her braids, his breath hot with whiskey: Wear Aditi’s uniform—bra, panties, the works. Come to my bedroom at dawn, no one sees. Play her, be her, let me fuck you in it. Keep the dress on, slide the panties, pull the bra up. Rukhsar’s heart twisted, her small hands gripping the balcony rail, her eyes tracing Aditi’s cycle as it vanished down the bougainvillea-lined drive, the household staff absorbed in morning chores, unaware of her mission. “Have fun!” she shouted, her voice soft, a pang of love for Aditi’s purity fueling her resolve—she’d obey the MP, feed his obsession, secure her place, but Aditi’s heart would stay untouched.
Rukhsar slipped back into the room, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, the robe falling to reveal her petite, curvaceous body—small breasts, plump ass, narrow waist, a delicate beauty that mirrored a look-alike ghost, the root of the MP’s crazed want, tied to that farmhouse night a month ago when her blood and cries marked her as his. Her pulse quickened, a thrill of power mingling with fear as she opened Aditi’s wardrobe, her fingers trembling with purpose. She lifted Aditi’s white cotton bra, simple and soft, slightly too big for her small breasts, the straps worn from Aditi’s daily wear. She slipped it on, the fabric brushing her red, sensitive nipples, chafing them into stiff peaks, the bra’s faint looseness only heightening her allure, her smallness making it sensual, a forbidden tease. Next came the matching panties, white and snug, hugging her plump ass, the crotch grazing her tender pussy, still slick from yesterday’s fucking, a shiver rippling through her as she adjusted them, the cotton dampening with her nervous heat.
She found Aditi’s spare white college uniform—crisp shirt, navy pleated skirt—and dressed with care, her fingers deliberate, savoring the act as if donning armor for battle. The shirt stretched tight over her breasts, sheer enough to hint at the bra’s outline, the buttons straining, her narrow waist accentuated, her nipples pressing faintly through. She zipped the skirt, its hem hitting mid-thigh, shorter on her petite frame, her ass lifting the fabric, her thighs bare, the uniform a blend of Aditi’s innocence and Rukhsar’s seductive edge. She fastened the bra again, its straps biting her shoulders, the panties rubbing her pussy with each move, her braids styled like Aditi’s, tight and neat, her reflection in the mirror a shock—her heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a look-alike lure, her tiny body turning the uniform into a fantasy, not skimpy but irresistibly sexy, every curve a spark to the MP’s fire.
Rukhsar’s breath hitched, her pussy throbbing—not lust, but the cheesy thrill of her mission, a Bollywood drama unfolding in her veins, her control a tightrope as she slipped on Aditi’s white socks, rolling them down, her small feet silent as she moved through the bungalow. The halls were empty, the MP’s wife chanting mantras at her puja, his son gone to court, the staff clattering in the kitchens, oblivious to her shadow-like glide. Her skirt swished, her panties chafed, her bra tugged, the uniform a second skin, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and power—she was Aditi for him, a role-play to feed his obsession, to hold the Sharma name, to protect her sisterly bond with the real Aditi, whose laughter lit her dark past.
The MP’s bedroom loomed, its teak door carved with peacocks, a portal to his dark desires. Rukhsar glanced back—no one saw, the bungalow’s rhythm unbroken, Aditi’s cycle long gone, her innocence safe. She turned the knob, slipping inside, the door clicking shut, her tiny frame swallowed by the room’s grandeur—crimson velvet curtains, a four-poster bed piled with silk, sandalwood air thick with his presence, a faint whiskey tang lingering. The MP stood by a teak dresser, his bulk imposing in a loose silk kurta, gray chest hair peeking through, his small eyes igniting as they locked on her, his cock already twitching under the fabric, his breath catching at the sight of her in Aditi’s uniform, her braids, her look-alike face a mirror to his ghost.
“Fuck, my little Aditi,” he rasped, his voice a cheesy growl, like a villain in a melodrama, his hands flexing as he stepped closer, his gaze raking her—shirt sheer, skirt short, bra’s outline teasing, panties hidden but promised. “You’re perfect—exactly how I wanted.” His fingers brushed her braid, then her cheek, lingering on her lips, her small stature a drug, her pussy’s memory—tight, wet, gripping him yesterday—a fire in his blood. “Play her, be her, talk like her—yesterday, the sister I gave you, all of it. Keep the dress on, slide those panties, pull the bra up, let me fuck you in it.” His command was a script, perverse but clear, his excitement pulsing, his cock straining, his obsession—her, or that farmhouse ghost—blazing as he pulled her close, his hands roaming her waist, her hips, stopping short of her skirt, savoring the tease.
Rukhsar’s heart raced, her pussy throbbing, her panties dampening, not from desire but the cheesy thrill of her role, a star in her own twisted saga, her control a delicate dance. She leaned into the act, her voice shifting to Aditi’s bright, teenage lilt, her eyes wide, playful, her small body swaying to mimic her friend’s energy. “Grandpa!” she chirped, the word a taboo spark, her skirt swishing as she twirled, her bra chafing her nipples, her panties rubbing her pussy, her smile a calculated glow. “You’re the best ever! Thank you for bringing Rukhsar—she’s my sister now, like, totally amazing!” Her tone was Aditi’s, bubbly, grateful, her words a cheesy script, her hands clasped, her breasts heaving under the shirt, her braids bouncing, her look-alike face a perfect lure.
He groaned, a low, theatrical rumble, his hands grabbing her waist, lifting her like a doll, her 90-pound frame effortless in his grip, her thighs brushing his kurta, her pussy leaving a faint wet mark, her panties stretched tight. He kissed her, slow, deliberate, his tongue teasing her lips, not plunging yet, his beard prickling her chin, her moans soft, Aditi-like, her role-play a seductive game. “Tell me about yesterday, my sweet girl,” he murmured, setting her on the bed’s edge, his fingers sliding under her skirt, finding her panties, grazing the cotton, not sliding them yet, teasing, his thumb brushing her thigh, her pussy pulsing beneath, her clit throbbing, her braids fanning on the silk sheets.
Rukhsar arched, her voice high, breathy, Aditi’s cadence perfected. “Oh, Grandpa, yesterday was the best! Rukhsar and I… we had a shower together, all giggly, like sisters!” She gasped as his fingers traced her panties’ edge, tugging lightly, not sliding, the cotton rubbing her pussy, her juices seeping, her thighs trembling, her bra’s straps biting her shoulders, her nipples stiff under the shirt. “We dressed up—she wore my tank top, looked so cute! We shared lassi, listened to Lata, talked about college, my crush!” Her words spilled, a cheesy monologue, Aditi’s chatter woven with Rukhsar’s cunning, her small breasts heaving, her skirt hiked slightly, her panties a promise, her bra still down, waiting for his pull.
He leaned in, his breath hot, his fingers finally sliding her panties aside—not off, as ordered—the cotton bunching, exposing her pussy, pink and swollen, glistening with her wetness, her clit begging for touch. “My good girl,” he growled, his voice dripping cheese, his hand cupping her breast, squeezing through the shirt, the bra’s outline a tease, his other hand pulling her bra up, not off, the cotton bunching above her breasts, her nipples exposed, red and aching, his thumb flicking one, her cry sharp, Aditi-like, her pussy clenching, her panties skewed, the uniform a fetish he worshipped. “More—tell me why you love your sister,” he urged, his lips brushing her nipple, not sucking yet, teasing, his excitement a palpable heat, his cock straining, his obsession burning, Rukhsar’s tiny body a canvas for his twisted drama, her control a flickering flame, Aditi’s innocence safe, the Sharma name hers to hold.
The MP’s bedroom pulsed with a decadent heat, its crimson velvet curtains drawn tight, the four-poster bed a silk-dbangd altar where Rukhsar’s tiny 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, curves defying her smallness—lay poised on the edge, her body a canvas of forbidden desire. The air was thick with sandalwood, the faint musk of her arousal, and the MP’s whiskey-tinged breath, morning light seeping through dbangs to glint off her Aditi-stolen uniform: a white college shirt, sheer and clinging, her small breasts heaving, the white cotton bra pulled up, bunched above her nipples, red and throbbing from his earlier flicks. The navy skirt was hiked, her plump ass lifting the hem, the matching panties slid aside, not removed, stretched taut to expose her pussy—pink, swollen, glistening, her clit pulsing, her juices slicking her thighs. Her braids, styled like Aditi’s, fanned across the silk sheets, her look-alike face—heart-shaped, wide-eyed, lips full—a haunting lure, the ghost of the MP’s obsession, rooted in that farmhouse night a month ago when he’d claimed her virginity, her blood and moans his trophy.
The MP loomed over her, his silk kurta discarded, his bulk naked, gray chest hair matted with sweat, his cock thick, veined, dripping pre-cum, hovering near her pussy, his small eyes blazing with a cheesy, melodramatic lust, like a Bollywood villain savoring his prize. His hands gripped her hips, her 90-pound frame a doll in his grasp, the uniform a fetish he’d ordered unbroken—shirt on, skirt up, bra pulled, panties skewed—his excitement a fever as she played Aditi, her role-play a calculated thread in her quest for control, the Sharma name her shield against Salma’s chains, her orphanage past, and the looming Goa bash she’d escaped. Aditi’s 16-year-old warmth—last night’s shower, shared clothes, lassi-fueled giggles—burned in Rukhsar’s heart, a sisterly bond echoing Jaipur’s lakes, Sanjana’s house, a light she’d protect even as she fed the MP’s dark fantasy.
“Keep going, my sweet girl,” he growled, his voice a theatrical purr, his fingers tracing her exposed nipple, pinching softly, her gasp high and Aditi-like, her pussy clenching, the panties’ cotton rubbing her ass, chafing her skin. “Tell me about your day—what’s in that pretty head of yours?” His cock nudged her pussy, teasing her folds, not entering yet, her wetness coating him, her clit sparking under the pressure, his other hand stroking her braid, tugging gently, his obsession—her, or that look-alike ghost—thrumming like a sitar’s drone, his breath ragged, his excitement mounting with every Aditi-mimicked word.
Rukhsar leaned into the role, her voice a bright, teenage chirp, distinct from yesterday’s chatter, her eyes sparkling with feigned innocence, her small body writhing subtly, the uniform’s shirt clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, the bra’s bunched fabric scratching her chest, the panties’ skewed edge teasing her ass. “Oh, Grandpa!” she squealed, her tone Aditi’s, bubbly and earnest, her skirt shifting as she arched, her pussy begging for him, her control a delicate flame. “college’s so exciting—I’ve got this history project, all about the Mughals, so cool! And… and I’m practicing my dance, you know, like Madhuri, for the annual show!” Her words danced, cheesy and vivid, her hands clutching the sheets, her breasts bouncing, nipples aching, her braids swaying, her look-alike face glowing, a perfect Aditi in his twisted script.
He groaned, a deep, dramatic rumble, his cock sliding along her pussy, teasing her clit, her juices dripping, soaking the panties’ skewed cotton, her thighs trembling, her skirt’s hem catching the mess. “My little dancer,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his beard prickling her neck, his hand squeezing her breast, thumb circling her nipple, not sucking yet, prolonging the cheesy tease, the uniform’s rules—shirt on, bra up, panties aside—his sacred law. “What else, huh? Why’re you so happy today?” His cock pressed harder, the tip breaching her pussy, stretching her, her tight walls quivering, her moan sharp, Aditi-like, her role-play a seductive spell, her small stature a drug, her pussy a fire he craved.
Rukhsar’s voice wavered, her Aditi-chirp laced with cunning, her pussy pulsing, her panties chafing, her bra’s bunched cotton rubbing her skin, her heart racing with the thrill of her power, Aditi’s innocence safe in her mind. “You make me happy, Grandpa!” she gasped, her hips bucking, urging his cock deeper, her juices gushing, her clit throbbing, her skirt hiked higher, her ass lifting, the uniform a fetish she wielded. “You’re so kind—adopting Rukhsar, giving me a sister to share secrets with, to dance with! I… I told my friends about her, they’re so jealous!” Her words were a cheesy ode, new and specific, her eyes locked on his, her look-alike beauty a mirror to his ghost, her small breasts heaving, nipples red, her braids tangling in the sheets, her panties’ cotton slick with her wetness, the role-play a delicate balance of submission and control.
He thrust, slow and deep, a wet squelch as his cock filled her, her pussy gripping tight, her moan a high, Aditi-like cry, her thighs wrapping his waist, the skirt bunching, the panties skewed, rubbing her ass, the bra’s bunched fabric chafing her chest, the shirt clinging, sheer and sweaty, the uniform unbroken, his rules obeyed. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he panted, his voice a cheesy growl, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her small frame, her 90-pound body rocking, her breasts bouncing, nipples begging for his mouth, his thrusts steady, her pussy gushing, her clit grinding his pelvis, her juices soaking the sheets, the panties, her thighs. “Keep talking—tell me how you love me,” he urged, his lips hovering over her nipple, his breath hot, teasing, his cock hitting deep, her tight walls milking him, his obsession—her, or that farmhouse ghost—blazing, his excitement a fever, the uniform’s fetish a shrine.
Rukhsar’s voice rose, her Aditi-chirp a melodramatic song, her pussy pulsing, her orgasm building, her small body trembling, the bra’s bunched cotton scratching, the panties’ skewed edge chafing, the skirt’s hem catching her juices, the shirt a second skin, her braids a tangled halo, her look-alike face a beacon. “I love you, Grandpa!” she squealed, her tone fervent, her hips bucking, her pussy clenching, her clit sparking, her words a fresh script, no echo of yesterday’s chatter. “You’re my hero—always there, making my dreams come true, letting me dance, giving me Rukhsar to giggle with, to plan our future!” Her voice cracked, her orgasm close, her thighs quaking, her breasts heaving, nipples aching, her role-play a cheesy triumph, her control a tightrope, Aditi’s innocence safe, her Sharma name a crown.
He fucked her harder, the bed creaking, silk sheets slipping, his cock slamming deep, her pussy gushing, her moans rising—sharp, Aditi-like, a crescendo of her act, her words spilling—college projects, dance rehearsals, Rukhsar’s coolness, his kindness—all woven into the fantasy, her cunning submission a shield for Aditi’s purity, her look-alike beauty a weapon. Her orgasm hit, a piercing scream, her pussy clamping his cock, her tiny body convulsing, her juices flooding, soaking the panties, the skirt, the sheets, her braids thrashing, her bra bunched, her shirt sweaty, her nipples red, the uniform unbroken, his rules sacred. He roared, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling out, wetting the panties, her thighs, the skirt’s hem, his thrusts slowing, his hands gripping her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession burning, her small stature a drug, her role-play a victory.
He collapsed beside her, panting, stroking her braids, her uniform intact—shirt on, skirt hiked, bra pulled up, panties skewed, soaked with their mingled cum—her tiny body trembling, her pussy leaking, her heart racing with triumph, fear, and Aditi’s warmth anchoring her. “My perfect girl,” he murmured, his voice cheesy, warm, his fingers tracing her nipple, her skirt, savoring the dress, his fantasy fulfilled, his obsession—her, or that look-alike ghost—sated for now. Rukhsar’s eyes fluttered, her Aditi-act a masterpiece, her control solid, her sisterly bond with Aditi untouched, the Sharma name hers, Salma’s chains a distant shadow, Maya’s audit a world away
Aditi bustled below, her college blazer crisp, her navy skirt swaying, her ponytail bouncing as she slung a backpack over her shoulder, her 10th-class energy infectious. “Rukhsar, I’m off to college!” she called, waving from the courtyard, her smile bright, oblivious to the MP’s orders whispered to Rukhsar in the night—Wear her uniform. Come to my room. Dawn, no one sees. Rukhsar waved back, her heart twisting, Aditi’s innocence a treasure she’d protect, even as she obeyed the MP to secure her place, the Sharma name her shield. “Have fun!” she shouted, her voice soft, her small hands gripping the balcony rail, her eyes following Aditi’s cycle until it vanished down the bougainvillea-lined drive, the household staff too busy with morning tasks to notice her.
Rukhsar slipped back into the room, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, her robe falling as she moved to Aditi’s wardrobe, her pulse quickening. The MP’s command was clear, his obsession—her tiny body, her look-alike face, her pussy’s grip—a fire she’d stoked to escape Salma, to claim control. She opened a drawer, her fingers trembling as she lifted Aditi’s bra—white cotton, simple, slightly too big for Rukhsar’s small breasts, its straps soft from wear. She slipped it on, the fabric loose but snug enough, her nipples faintly visible, red from his bites, pressing against the cotton. Next, Aditi’s panties—matching white, a touch stretched, hugging Rukhsar’s plump ass, the crotch brushing her tender pussy, still sore from his cock, a shiver running through her as she adjusted them, her small stature making the plain underwear sensual, a forbidden tease.
She found the white college uniform—Aditi’s spare, neatly folded, a crisp shirt and pleated navy skirt. Rukhsar unhooked the bra briefly, pulling the shirt over her head, its buttons straining slightly over her breasts, the fabric sheer enough to hint at her bra’s outline, her narrow waist accentuated. She stepped into the skirt, zipping it tight, the hem hitting mid-thigh, shorter on her petite frame, her ass lifting the fabric, her thighs exposed, the uniform transforming her into a vision of Aditi’s innocence laced with her own seductive edge. She re-fastened the bra, her fingers lingering, the panties dampening faintly—not lust, but the thrill of her mission, her control over the MP’s hunger, her Sharma name a prize won through cunning.
Rukhsar braided her hair quickly, mimicking Aditi’s style, her reflection in the mirror a shock—her heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a look-alike ghost the MP chased, her tiny body making the uniform a fantasy, not skimpy but devastatingly sexy, every curve popping, her smallness a weapon. She slipped on Aditi’s white socks, too big but rolled down, and stole a glance at the room—pink posters, fairy lights, Lata’s voice fading as she turned off the speaker, her heart pounding. The household was quiet, the MP’s wife at her morning puja, his son gone to court, the staff in the kitchens. Rukhsar moved, silent as a shadow, her small feet padding down the marble corridor, the uniform’s skirt swishing, her panties rubbing her pussy with each step, her bra chafing her nipples, a reminder of his teeth, his cum, his obsession.
The Tease in the MP’s Bedroom
The Sharma bungalow stirred with dawn’s gentle hum, its marble halls aglow with soft sunlight spilling through arched windows, the air laced with jasmine from the gardens and the warm, spiced scent of morning chai brewing in the kitchens. Rukhsar stood on the balcony of Aditi’s pink-walled bedroom, a teenage sanctuary of Bollywood posters, fairy lights, and Lata Mangeshkar’s soulful melodies fading from a Bluetooth speaker. Her tiny 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, curves popping despite her smallness—was wrapped in a fluffy robe, her damp braids loose from last night’s shower with Aditi, their sisterly laughter and shared mango lassi a glowing memory, echoing the wholesome warmth of Jaipur’s lakes or Sanjana’s house. Beneath the robe, her skin bore faint marks—nipples red from the MP’s bites, a bruise on her thigh from his grip, her pussy tender from his cock’s relentless pounding on the chamber’s teak table, his cum flooding her, sealing her whispered vow: Save me from Salma, from Goa. The Sharma name was her shield, Aditi’s 18-year-old innocence her anchor, her hellish past—orphanage, Salma’s kidnapping, the farmhouse where he’d taken her virginity—fading in this new dawn.
Below, Aditi bustled in the courtyard, her college blazer crisp, navy skirt swishing, ponytail bouncing as she slung a backpack over her shoulder, her 10th-class energy a burst of sunlight. “Rukhsar, off to college!” she called, waving, her smile radiant, oblivious to the MP’s late-night orders whispered to Rukhsar as he stroked her braids, his breath hot with whiskey: Wear Aditi’s uniform—bra, panties, the works. Come to my bedroom at dawn, no one sees. Play her, be her, let me fuck you in it. Keep the dress on, slide the panties, pull the bra up. Rukhsar’s heart twisted, her small hands gripping the balcony rail, her eyes tracing Aditi’s cycle as it vanished down the bougainvillea-lined drive, the household staff absorbed in morning chores, unaware of her mission. “Have fun!” she shouted, her voice soft, a pang of love for Aditi’s purity fueling her resolve—she’d obey the MP, feed his obsession, secure her place, but Aditi’s heart would stay untouched.
Rukhsar slipped back into the room, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, the robe falling to reveal her petite, curvaceous body—small breasts, plump ass, narrow waist, a delicate beauty that mirrored a look-alike ghost, the root of the MP’s crazed want, tied to that farmhouse night a month ago when her blood and cries marked her as his. Her pulse quickened, a thrill of power mingling with fear as she opened Aditi’s wardrobe, her fingers trembling with purpose. She lifted Aditi’s white cotton bra, simple and soft, slightly too big for her small breasts, the straps worn from Aditi’s daily wear. She slipped it on, the fabric brushing her red, sensitive nipples, chafing them into stiff peaks, the bra’s faint looseness only heightening her allure, her smallness making it sensual, a forbidden tease. Next came the matching panties, white and snug, hugging her plump ass, the crotch grazing her tender pussy, still slick from yesterday’s fucking, a shiver rippling through her as she adjusted them, the cotton dampening with her nervous heat.
She found Aditi’s spare white college uniform—crisp shirt, navy pleated skirt—and dressed with care, her fingers deliberate, savoring the act as if donning armor for battle. The shirt stretched tight over her breasts, sheer enough to hint at the bra’s outline, the buttons straining, her narrow waist accentuated, her nipples pressing faintly through. She zipped the skirt, its hem hitting mid-thigh, shorter on her petite frame, her ass lifting the fabric, her thighs bare, the uniform a blend of Aditi’s innocence and Rukhsar’s seductive edge. She fastened the bra again, its straps biting her shoulders, the panties rubbing her pussy with each move, her braids styled like Aditi’s, tight and neat, her reflection in the mirror a shock—her heart-shaped face, wide eyes, full lips, a look-alike lure, her tiny body turning the uniform into a fantasy, not skimpy but irresistibly sexy, every curve a spark to the MP’s fire.
Rukhsar’s breath hitched, her pussy throbbing—not lust, but the cheesy thrill of her mission, a Bollywood drama unfolding in her veins, her control a tightrope as she slipped on Aditi’s white socks, rolling them down, her small feet silent as she moved through the bungalow. The halls were empty, the MP’s wife chanting mantras at her puja, his son gone to court, the staff clattering in the kitchens, oblivious to her shadow-like glide. Her skirt swished, her panties chafed, her bra tugged, the uniform a second skin, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and power—she was Aditi for him, a role-play to feed his obsession, to hold the Sharma name, to protect her sisterly bond with the real Aditi, whose laughter lit her dark past.
The MP’s bedroom loomed, its teak door carved with peacocks, a portal to his dark desires. Rukhsar glanced back—no one saw, the bungalow’s rhythm unbroken, Aditi’s cycle long gone, her innocence safe. She turned the knob, slipping inside, the door clicking shut, her tiny frame swallowed by the room’s grandeur—crimson velvet curtains, a four-poster bed piled with silk, sandalwood air thick with his presence, a faint whiskey tang lingering. The MP stood by a teak dresser, his bulk imposing in a loose silk kurta, gray chest hair peeking through, his small eyes igniting as they locked on her, his cock already twitching under the fabric, his breath catching at the sight of her in Aditi’s uniform, her braids, her look-alike face a mirror to his ghost.
“Fuck, my little Aditi,” he rasped, his voice a cheesy growl, like a villain in a melodrama, his hands flexing as he stepped closer, his gaze raking her—shirt sheer, skirt short, bra’s outline teasing, panties hidden but promised. “You’re perfect—exactly how I wanted.” His fingers brushed her braid, then her cheek, lingering on her lips, her small stature a drug, her pussy’s memory—tight, wet, gripping him yesterday—a fire in his blood. “Play her, be her, talk like her—yesterday, the sister I gave you, all of it. Keep the dress on, slide those panties, pull the bra up, let me fuck you in it.” His command was a script, perverse but clear, his excitement pulsing, his cock straining, his obsession—her, or that farmhouse ghost—blazing as he pulled her close, his hands roaming her waist, her hips, stopping short of her skirt, savoring the tease.
Rukhsar’s heart raced, her pussy throbbing, her panties dampening, not from desire but the cheesy thrill of her role, a star in her own twisted saga, her control a delicate dance. She leaned into the act, her voice shifting to Aditi’s bright, teenage lilt, her eyes wide, playful, her small body swaying to mimic her friend’s energy. “Grandpa!” she chirped, the word a taboo spark, her skirt swishing as she twirled, her bra chafing her nipples, her panties rubbing her pussy, her smile a calculated glow. “You’re the best ever! Thank you for bringing Rukhsar—she’s my sister now, like, totally amazing!” Her tone was Aditi’s, bubbly, grateful, her words a cheesy script, her hands clasped, her breasts heaving under the shirt, her braids bouncing, her look-alike face a perfect lure.
He groaned, a low, theatrical rumble, his hands grabbing her waist, lifting her like a doll, her 90-pound frame effortless in his grip, her thighs brushing his kurta, her pussy leaving a faint wet mark, her panties stretched tight. He kissed her, slow, deliberate, his tongue teasing her lips, not plunging yet, his beard prickling her chin, her moans soft, Aditi-like, her role-play a seductive game. “Tell me about yesterday, my sweet girl,” he murmured, setting her on the bed’s edge, his fingers sliding under her skirt, finding her panties, grazing the cotton, not sliding them yet, teasing, his thumb brushing her thigh, her pussy pulsing beneath, her clit throbbing, her braids fanning on the silk sheets.
Rukhsar arched, her voice high, breathy, Aditi’s cadence perfected. “Oh, Grandpa, yesterday was the best! Rukhsar and I… we had a shower together, all giggly, like sisters!” She gasped as his fingers traced her panties’ edge, tugging lightly, not sliding, the cotton rubbing her pussy, her juices seeping, her thighs trembling, her bra’s straps biting her shoulders, her nipples stiff under the shirt. “We dressed up—she wore my tank top, looked so cute! We shared lassi, listened to Lata, talked about college, my crush!” Her words spilled, a cheesy monologue, Aditi’s chatter woven with Rukhsar’s cunning, her small breasts heaving, her skirt hiked slightly, her panties a promise, her bra still down, waiting for his pull.
He leaned in, his breath hot, his fingers finally sliding her panties aside—not off, as ordered—the cotton bunching, exposing her pussy, pink and swollen, glistening with her wetness, her clit begging for touch. “My good girl,” he growled, his voice dripping cheese, his hand cupping her breast, squeezing through the shirt, the bra’s outline a tease, his other hand pulling her bra up, not off, the cotton bunching above her breasts, her nipples exposed, red and aching, his thumb flicking one, her cry sharp, Aditi-like, her pussy clenching, her panties skewed, the uniform a fetish he worshipped. “More—tell me why you love your sister,” he urged, his lips brushing her nipple, not sucking yet, teasing, his excitement a palpable heat, his cock straining, his obsession burning, Rukhsar’s tiny body a canvas for his twisted drama, her control a flickering flame, Aditi’s innocence safe, the Sharma name hers to hold.
The MP’s bedroom pulsed with a decadent heat, its crimson velvet curtains drawn tight, the four-poster bed a silk-dbangd altar where Rukhsar’s tiny 18-year-old frame—barely five feet, 90 pounds, curves defying her smallness—lay poised on the edge, her body a canvas of forbidden desire. The air was thick with sandalwood, the faint musk of her arousal, and the MP’s whiskey-tinged breath, morning light seeping through dbangs to glint off her Aditi-stolen uniform: a white college shirt, sheer and clinging, her small breasts heaving, the white cotton bra pulled up, bunched above her nipples, red and throbbing from his earlier flicks. The navy skirt was hiked, her plump ass lifting the hem, the matching panties slid aside, not removed, stretched taut to expose her pussy—pink, swollen, glistening, her clit pulsing, her juices slicking her thighs. Her braids, styled like Aditi’s, fanned across the silk sheets, her look-alike face—heart-shaped, wide-eyed, lips full—a haunting lure, the ghost of the MP’s obsession, rooted in that farmhouse night a month ago when he’d claimed her virginity, her blood and moans his trophy.
The MP loomed over her, his silk kurta discarded, his bulk naked, gray chest hair matted with sweat, his cock thick, veined, dripping pre-cum, hovering near her pussy, his small eyes blazing with a cheesy, melodramatic lust, like a Bollywood villain savoring his prize. His hands gripped her hips, her 90-pound frame a doll in his grasp, the uniform a fetish he’d ordered unbroken—shirt on, skirt up, bra pulled, panties skewed—his excitement a fever as she played Aditi, her role-play a calculated thread in her quest for control, the Sharma name her shield against Salma’s chains, her orphanage past, and the looming Goa bash she’d escaped. Aditi’s 16-year-old warmth—last night’s shower, shared clothes, lassi-fueled giggles—burned in Rukhsar’s heart, a sisterly bond echoing Jaipur’s lakes, Sanjana’s house, a light she’d protect even as she fed the MP’s dark fantasy.
“Keep going, my sweet girl,” he growled, his voice a theatrical purr, his fingers tracing her exposed nipple, pinching softly, her gasp high and Aditi-like, her pussy clenching, the panties’ cotton rubbing her ass, chafing her skin. “Tell me about your day—what’s in that pretty head of yours?” His cock nudged her pussy, teasing her folds, not entering yet, her wetness coating him, her clit sparking under the pressure, his other hand stroking her braid, tugging gently, his obsession—her, or that look-alike ghost—thrumming like a sitar’s drone, his breath ragged, his excitement mounting with every Aditi-mimicked word.
Rukhsar leaned into the role, her voice a bright, teenage chirp, distinct from yesterday’s chatter, her eyes sparkling with feigned innocence, her small body writhing subtly, the uniform’s shirt clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, the bra’s bunched fabric scratching her chest, the panties’ skewed edge teasing her ass. “Oh, Grandpa!” she squealed, her tone Aditi’s, bubbly and earnest, her skirt shifting as she arched, her pussy begging for him, her control a delicate flame. “college’s so exciting—I’ve got this history project, all about the Mughals, so cool! And… and I’m practicing my dance, you know, like Madhuri, for the annual show!” Her words danced, cheesy and vivid, her hands clutching the sheets, her breasts bouncing, nipples aching, her braids swaying, her look-alike face glowing, a perfect Aditi in his twisted script.
He groaned, a deep, dramatic rumble, his cock sliding along her pussy, teasing her clit, her juices dripping, soaking the panties’ skewed cotton, her thighs trembling, her skirt’s hem catching the mess. “My little dancer,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his beard prickling her neck, his hand squeezing her breast, thumb circling her nipple, not sucking yet, prolonging the cheesy tease, the uniform’s rules—shirt on, bra up, panties aside—his sacred law. “What else, huh? Why’re you so happy today?” His cock pressed harder, the tip breaching her pussy, stretching her, her tight walls quivering, her moan sharp, Aditi-like, her role-play a seductive spell, her small stature a drug, her pussy a fire he craved.
Rukhsar’s voice wavered, her Aditi-chirp laced with cunning, her pussy pulsing, her panties chafing, her bra’s bunched cotton rubbing her skin, her heart racing with the thrill of her power, Aditi’s innocence safe in her mind. “You make me happy, Grandpa!” she gasped, her hips bucking, urging his cock deeper, her juices gushing, her clit throbbing, her skirt hiked higher, her ass lifting, the uniform a fetish she wielded. “You’re so kind—adopting Rukhsar, giving me a sister to share secrets with, to dance with! I… I told my friends about her, they’re so jealous!” Her words were a cheesy ode, new and specific, her eyes locked on his, her look-alike beauty a mirror to his ghost, her small breasts heaving, nipples red, her braids tangling in the sheets, her panties’ cotton slick with her wetness, the role-play a delicate balance of submission and control.
He thrust, slow and deep, a wet squelch as his cock filled her, her pussy gripping tight, her moan a high, Aditi-like cry, her thighs wrapping his waist, the skirt bunching, the panties skewed, rubbing her ass, the bra’s bunched fabric chafing her chest, the shirt clinging, sheer and sweaty, the uniform unbroken, his rules obeyed. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he panted, his voice a cheesy growl, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her small frame, her 90-pound body rocking, her breasts bouncing, nipples begging for his mouth, his thrusts steady, her pussy gushing, her clit grinding his pelvis, her juices soaking the sheets, the panties, her thighs. “Keep talking—tell me how you love me,” he urged, his lips hovering over her nipple, his breath hot, teasing, his cock hitting deep, her tight walls milking him, his obsession—her, or that farmhouse ghost—blazing, his excitement a fever, the uniform’s fetish a shrine.
Rukhsar’s voice rose, her Aditi-chirp a melodramatic song, her pussy pulsing, her orgasm building, her small body trembling, the bra’s bunched cotton scratching, the panties’ skewed edge chafing, the skirt’s hem catching her juices, the shirt a second skin, her braids a tangled halo, her look-alike face a beacon. “I love you, Grandpa!” she squealed, her tone fervent, her hips bucking, her pussy clenching, her clit sparking, her words a fresh script, no echo of yesterday’s chatter. “You’re my hero—always there, making my dreams come true, letting me dance, giving me Rukhsar to giggle with, to plan our future!” Her voice cracked, her orgasm close, her thighs quaking, her breasts heaving, nipples aching, her role-play a cheesy triumph, her control a tightrope, Aditi’s innocence safe, her Sharma name a crown.
He fucked her harder, the bed creaking, silk sheets slipping, his cock slamming deep, her pussy gushing, her moans rising—sharp, Aditi-like, a crescendo of her act, her words spilling—college projects, dance rehearsals, Rukhsar’s coolness, his kindness—all woven into the fantasy, her cunning submission a shield for Aditi’s purity, her look-alike beauty a weapon. Her orgasm hit, a piercing scream, her pussy clamping his cock, her tiny body convulsing, her juices flooding, soaking the panties, the skirt, the sheets, her braids thrashing, her bra bunched, her shirt sweaty, her nipples red, the uniform unbroken, his rules sacred. He roared, his cum flooding her, hot and thick, spilling out, wetting the panties, her thighs, the skirt’s hem, his thrusts slowing, his hands gripping her braids, her lips, her cum-slick skin, his obsession burning, her small stature a drug, her role-play a victory.
He collapsed beside her, panting, stroking her braids, her uniform intact—shirt on, skirt hiked, bra pulled up, panties skewed, soaked with their mingled cum—her tiny body trembling, her pussy leaking, her heart racing with triumph, fear, and Aditi’s warmth anchoring her. “My perfect girl,” he murmured, his voice cheesy, warm, his fingers tracing her nipple, her skirt, savoring the dress, his fantasy fulfilled, his obsession—her, or that look-alike ghost—sated for now. Rukhsar’s eyes fluttered, her Aditi-act a masterpiece, her control solid, her sisterly bond with Aditi untouched, the Sharma name hers, Salma’s chains a distant shadow, Maya’s audit a world away
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