5 hours ago
It hit like a thunderbolt out of nowhere—Aunt Madhu's husband, that poor bastard, wiped out in a freak car accident on some rain-slick Bangalore highway. The news ripped through the family like a chainsaw, and suddenly everyone was scrambling to her place in the old neighborhood, paying final respects to the stiff in the coffin. But fuck me, that's when my true inner devil clawed its way to the surface, turning a somber funeral into my personal perverted playground. I was already a horn-dog, sure, but this? This unlocked some next-level depravity, making my cock twitch at the worst possible moment.
We piled into the car—me, my brother Britto with his holier-than-thou vibe, Dad looking all solemn in his buttoned-up shirt, and Mom, Anuradha, dressed in a simple white cotton saree that hugged her curves just enough to remind me she was a goddamn vision, even if I shoved those thoughts down deep. We arrived at Aunt Madhu's house, a modest two-story joint crammed with relatives. The place was a madhouse: a huge crowd milling outside, distant cousins and neighbors chain-smoking and murmuring prayers under the awning, while only the close blood—about two dozen of us—crammed inside the living room where Uncle's body lay in that polished wooden box, incense choking the air like cheap perfume.
Britto and I, along with a few other young cousins—lanky assholes like me, all in our early 20s—got roped into helper duty. We hustled back and forth from the kitchen, slinging plates of greasy snacks, steaming cups of chai and coffee to the mourners. "Here, take this," I'd mutter, handing off a tray while my mind wandered to filthier places. Sweat beaded on my forehead from the humid crush of bodies; the house felt like a fucking sauna with all the crying and hugging. After wrapping up my shift, wiping my hands on my pants, I slipped inside the main hall to "pay my respects." Bullshit—that's when the demon possessed me, turning my eyes into hungry predators.
The room was thick with grief: sobs echoing off the walls, tissues crumpled everywhere. Uncle's corpse looked waxy and peaceful in the open casket, but who gives a shit? My gaze locked on Aunt Madhu first, the widow herself, kneeling front and center, wailing like her world had shattered. Fuck, she was a mess—a hot, dripping, cock-teasing mess. Her black mourning saree was all fucked up, the pallu slipping dangerously low, barely clinging to her shoulder like it was begging to drop. Her massive tits—those 38D monsters I'd fantasized about in passing—were heaving with every sob, spilling out in a deep, sweaty cleavage that glistened under the harsh tube lights. Beads of sweat rolled down her neck, disappearing into that valley of soft, milky flesh, making her skin glow like she'd been oiled up for a porn shoot. Her face was flushed, mascara-streaked tears mixing with the oily sheen on her cheeks, lips parted in grief but looking so fuckable I could imagine shoving my dick between them right there.
And goddamn, Mom was right beside her, Anuradha's arm around her sister's shoulders in that sisterly comfort bullshit. Mom's white saree was pristine, no slips or shows, but fuck—her face was a lust trap all on its own. Sweaty and oily from the heat, her skin shimmering like wet silk, those full lips slightly parted as she whispered prayers. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, somehow made her look vulnerable and horny, like she needed a good pounding to forget the pain. No assets on display, but that didn't stop my cock from stirring; her conservative vibe only made the forbidden itch worse.
Surrounding them? Aunt Madhu's two daughters—my cousins, those ripe little sluts in their early 20s. The older one, fresh from her marriage, had that newly-fucked glow, her saree hugging her perky ass and tits like a second skin, sweat making the fabric cling to her thighs. The younger one was no less—slender, with a tight body that screamed "virgin but ready," her pallu tucked loosely, hinting at the small, firm mounds beneath. Their faces were tear-streaked, but the sweat trickling down their necks, pooling at their collarbones, had my mind racing to dirtier places: imagining licking it off, tasting the salty grief mixed with their young, musky heat.
The hall was packed with about 15 ladies total—close aunts, cousins, family friends—all huddled around the body like a buffet of forbidden flesh. Even the older ones, those 50-something grannies with sagging tits and wrinkled skin, looked fuckable in my twisted state: their sarees damp with sweat, blouses sticking to rolls of belly fat that jiggled with every sob, exposing hints of lacy bras or bare midriffs. One ancient aunty had her pallu completely askew, her hairy armpits on display as she fanned herself, and fuck if it didn't make my balls ache. My eyes devoured them all, lingering from top to bottom—analyzing every drop of sweat sliding down cleavages, soaking into waistlines, making pussies damp under those layers. My cock swelled hard in my pants, an 8-inch monster throbbing against my zipper, leaking precum like a faucet. I was ready to burst, to whip it out right there in the grief-stricken hall and jerk off in front of everyone, spraying ropes of cum over their tear-soaked faces. But sanity—or what was left of it—kicked in. I bolted for the bathroom upstairs, heart pounding, dick straining like it was about to explode.
The door clicked shut behind me, and there they were: Aunt Madhu's dirty laundry hamper, spilling over with her intimates. On top? Her black lace bra and matching panties, still warm and musky from the day's wear. Fuck, the scent hit me like a drug—sweat, pussy juice, that faint floral perfume she wore. I snatched them up, burying my face in the crotch of the panties, inhaling deep the tangy aroma of her mature cunt. My cock sprang free as I yanked down my pants, veiny and thick, head purple and slick. With one hand wrapping the bra around my shaft—those cups that had cradled her fat tits now stroking my meat—I shoved the panties into my mouth, sucking on the gusset like it was her clit. I pounded my fist up and down, imagining railing Aunt Madhu over her dead husband's coffin, her sobs turning to moans as I filled her widow pussy with my load. The pressure built fast, balls tightening, and after 10 brutal minutes of furious pumping, I erupted—huge, thick ropes of cum blasting from my 8-inch beast, coating her bra and panties in sticky white globs. It drenched the lace, pooling in the cups, dripping off the straps like I'd bred her underwear. I gasped, knees weak, the release flooding me with that post-nut haze... but it wasn't enough. My inner demon was still raging, cock twitching for more.
Even after stuffing the cum-soaked inners back in the hamper—leaving them ruined with my seed, a secret fuck-you to her grief—I wasn't satisfied. I slunk back to the hall, phone in hand, blending into the shadows. The ladies were still there, oblivious, their bodies on display in the chaos. I snapped candid, hidden pics like a pro perv: Aunt Madhu's cleavage heaving mid-sob, a close-up of her sweaty neck; Mom's oily face glistening under the lights, lips parted in a way that screamed "cock-sucker"; my cousins' asses as they bent to hug someone, sarees riding up to show thigh curves; even the old aunties, their saggy tits outlined in damp blouses. About 20 shots in total, every one fueling my fire, including one of Mom—her profile, sweat beading on her forehead, looking so innocently fuckable.
For the next six hours, as the funeral dragged on—rituals, more crying, the body finally carted off—I snuck away whenever I could: to the bathroom, a quiet corner upstairs, even the backyard shed. Four times I jerked off, each session more intense than the last. First round: staring at Aunt Madhu's pic, imagining tit-fucking her cleavage until I painted her face. Huge cum load splattered on the sink. Second: Mom's oily face, fantasizing forcing her to her knees, making her swallow my atheist seed. Cum ropes hitting the wall. Third: my cousins, picturing a family orgy, double-teaming their tight pussies. Balls drained dry. Fourth: the whole gallery, scrolling through the 15 ladies' sweaty bodies, even the grannies' wrinkled assets making me blow another massive wad. By the end, my cock was raw, balls aching, but the demon was sated—for now. Even though they were blood—sisters, aunts, Mom—I couldn't control the lust, the horniness boiling in my veins. That day, I knew: the inner devil was here to stay, ready to corrupt every forbidden hole in sight.
We piled into the car—me, my brother Britto with his holier-than-thou vibe, Dad looking all solemn in his buttoned-up shirt, and Mom, Anuradha, dressed in a simple white cotton saree that hugged her curves just enough to remind me she was a goddamn vision, even if I shoved those thoughts down deep. We arrived at Aunt Madhu's house, a modest two-story joint crammed with relatives. The place was a madhouse: a huge crowd milling outside, distant cousins and neighbors chain-smoking and murmuring prayers under the awning, while only the close blood—about two dozen of us—crammed inside the living room where Uncle's body lay in that polished wooden box, incense choking the air like cheap perfume.
Britto and I, along with a few other young cousins—lanky assholes like me, all in our early 20s—got roped into helper duty. We hustled back and forth from the kitchen, slinging plates of greasy snacks, steaming cups of chai and coffee to the mourners. "Here, take this," I'd mutter, handing off a tray while my mind wandered to filthier places. Sweat beaded on my forehead from the humid crush of bodies; the house felt like a fucking sauna with all the crying and hugging. After wrapping up my shift, wiping my hands on my pants, I slipped inside the main hall to "pay my respects." Bullshit—that's when the demon possessed me, turning my eyes into hungry predators.
The room was thick with grief: sobs echoing off the walls, tissues crumpled everywhere. Uncle's corpse looked waxy and peaceful in the open casket, but who gives a shit? My gaze locked on Aunt Madhu first, the widow herself, kneeling front and center, wailing like her world had shattered. Fuck, she was a mess—a hot, dripping, cock-teasing mess. Her black mourning saree was all fucked up, the pallu slipping dangerously low, barely clinging to her shoulder like it was begging to drop. Her massive tits—those 38D monsters I'd fantasized about in passing—were heaving with every sob, spilling out in a deep, sweaty cleavage that glistened under the harsh tube lights. Beads of sweat rolled down her neck, disappearing into that valley of soft, milky flesh, making her skin glow like she'd been oiled up for a porn shoot. Her face was flushed, mascara-streaked tears mixing with the oily sheen on her cheeks, lips parted in grief but looking so fuckable I could imagine shoving my dick between them right there.
And goddamn, Mom was right beside her, Anuradha's arm around her sister's shoulders in that sisterly comfort bullshit. Mom's white saree was pristine, no slips or shows, but fuck—her face was a lust trap all on its own. Sweaty and oily from the heat, her skin shimmering like wet silk, those full lips slightly parted as she whispered prayers. Her eyes, red-rimmed from crying, somehow made her look vulnerable and horny, like she needed a good pounding to forget the pain. No assets on display, but that didn't stop my cock from stirring; her conservative vibe only made the forbidden itch worse.
Surrounding them? Aunt Madhu's two daughters—my cousins, those ripe little sluts in their early 20s. The older one, fresh from her marriage, had that newly-fucked glow, her saree hugging her perky ass and tits like a second skin, sweat making the fabric cling to her thighs. The younger one was no less—slender, with a tight body that screamed "virgin but ready," her pallu tucked loosely, hinting at the small, firm mounds beneath. Their faces were tear-streaked, but the sweat trickling down their necks, pooling at their collarbones, had my mind racing to dirtier places: imagining licking it off, tasting the salty grief mixed with their young, musky heat.
The hall was packed with about 15 ladies total—close aunts, cousins, family friends—all huddled around the body like a buffet of forbidden flesh. Even the older ones, those 50-something grannies with sagging tits and wrinkled skin, looked fuckable in my twisted state: their sarees damp with sweat, blouses sticking to rolls of belly fat that jiggled with every sob, exposing hints of lacy bras or bare midriffs. One ancient aunty had her pallu completely askew, her hairy armpits on display as she fanned herself, and fuck if it didn't make my balls ache. My eyes devoured them all, lingering from top to bottom—analyzing every drop of sweat sliding down cleavages, soaking into waistlines, making pussies damp under those layers. My cock swelled hard in my pants, an 8-inch monster throbbing against my zipper, leaking precum like a faucet. I was ready to burst, to whip it out right there in the grief-stricken hall and jerk off in front of everyone, spraying ropes of cum over their tear-soaked faces. But sanity—or what was left of it—kicked in. I bolted for the bathroom upstairs, heart pounding, dick straining like it was about to explode.
The door clicked shut behind me, and there they were: Aunt Madhu's dirty laundry hamper, spilling over with her intimates. On top? Her black lace bra and matching panties, still warm and musky from the day's wear. Fuck, the scent hit me like a drug—sweat, pussy juice, that faint floral perfume she wore. I snatched them up, burying my face in the crotch of the panties, inhaling deep the tangy aroma of her mature cunt. My cock sprang free as I yanked down my pants, veiny and thick, head purple and slick. With one hand wrapping the bra around my shaft—those cups that had cradled her fat tits now stroking my meat—I shoved the panties into my mouth, sucking on the gusset like it was her clit. I pounded my fist up and down, imagining railing Aunt Madhu over her dead husband's coffin, her sobs turning to moans as I filled her widow pussy with my load. The pressure built fast, balls tightening, and after 10 brutal minutes of furious pumping, I erupted—huge, thick ropes of cum blasting from my 8-inch beast, coating her bra and panties in sticky white globs. It drenched the lace, pooling in the cups, dripping off the straps like I'd bred her underwear. I gasped, knees weak, the release flooding me with that post-nut haze... but it wasn't enough. My inner demon was still raging, cock twitching for more.
Even after stuffing the cum-soaked inners back in the hamper—leaving them ruined with my seed, a secret fuck-you to her grief—I wasn't satisfied. I slunk back to the hall, phone in hand, blending into the shadows. The ladies were still there, oblivious, their bodies on display in the chaos. I snapped candid, hidden pics like a pro perv: Aunt Madhu's cleavage heaving mid-sob, a close-up of her sweaty neck; Mom's oily face glistening under the lights, lips parted in a way that screamed "cock-sucker"; my cousins' asses as they bent to hug someone, sarees riding up to show thigh curves; even the old aunties, their saggy tits outlined in damp blouses. About 20 shots in total, every one fueling my fire, including one of Mom—her profile, sweat beading on her forehead, looking so innocently fuckable.
For the next six hours, as the funeral dragged on—rituals, more crying, the body finally carted off—I snuck away whenever I could: to the bathroom, a quiet corner upstairs, even the backyard shed. Four times I jerked off, each session more intense than the last. First round: staring at Aunt Madhu's pic, imagining tit-fucking her cleavage until I painted her face. Huge cum load splattered on the sink. Second: Mom's oily face, fantasizing forcing her to her knees, making her swallow my atheist seed. Cum ropes hitting the wall. Third: my cousins, picturing a family orgy, double-teaming their tight pussies. Balls drained dry. Fourth: the whole gallery, scrolling through the 15 ladies' sweaty bodies, even the grannies' wrinkled assets making me blow another massive wad. By the end, my cock was raw, balls aching, but the demon was sated—for now. Even though they were blood—sisters, aunts, Mom—I couldn't control the lust, the horniness boiling in my veins. That day, I knew: the inner devil was here to stay, ready to corrupt every forbidden hole in sight.
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