09-02-2026, 09:44 PM
(This post was last modified: 09-02-2026, 09:46 PM by Innocent_Pervert. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
The Bet between Father and Uncle
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when the bet happened. The family was gathered in the living room—Papa and Chacha on the sofa, watching a cricket match between India and Australia. Maa was in the kitchen preparing snacks, her saree dbangd loosely, the pallu slipping occasionally as she moved. I sat in the corner, half-watching the TV, half-listening to their banter.
Papa, ever the confident one, leaned back with a grin. "Yeh match toh hamara hai, Chacha. Kohli aaj century maarega. Bet lagao?"
Chacha chuckled, eyes flicking toward the kitchen where Maa bent to pull out a tray from the oven, her hips swaying slightly. "Theek hai, Bhaiya. Agar India jeeti, toh main aapke liye naya Bat khareedunga. Par agar haare, toh…?" He trailed off, a sly smile playing on his lips.
Papa's eyes narrowed, the match forgotten for a moment. He glanced at Maa too, then lowered his voice. "Agar haare, toh aaj raat… tum apni Bhabhi ko apne tarike se khush kar sakte ho. Rough, jaise tum chahte ho.. Main sirf dekhunga."
Chacha's face flushed, but he nodded quickly. "Theek hai, Bhaiya. Bet pakki."
Maa walked in just then, carrying the tray of pakoras. "Kya bet pakki? Match ki baat kar rahe ho?" She set the tray down, her pallu slipping to reveal the curve of her waist. She didn't fix it right away, bending low enough that the blouse gaped slightly, showing the swell of her breasts.
Papa cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly. "Haan, bas match ki. India jeetegi."
Chacha just nodded, his eyes lingering on her exposed skin. Maa smiled faintly, straightening up. "Achha? Dekhte hain." She sat between them on the sofa, her thigh brushing Papa's, her arm close to Chacha's. The air thickened as the match played on.
India lost. Badly. Kohli out for a duck, the team collapsing under pressure. Papa groaned, head in hands. Chacha's smile was quiet but triumphant.
That Night, Papa cleared his throat first, voice low. “Suno… humne bet lagayi thi. Match ki. Main haara.”
Maa raised an eyebrow, amused. “Toh? Kya jeeta Devar ji ne?”
Chacha shifted closer, his thigh pressing against hers. His voice was thick. “Bhabhi… aaj raat aapko… main apne tarike se khush karunga. Rough tarike se. Bhaiya sirf dekhenge.”
Maa froze. The smile vanished. “Kya? Yeh kya bakwas hai? Main koi cheez hoon jo tum logon ki bet mein jeeti jaati hoon?” She stood up, pallu falling off her shoulder in anger. “Nahin! Yeh galat hai. Main koi toy nahi hoon jo tum log baantoge!”
Papa looked down, ashamed. “Yaar… bet hai. Aur… main haara. Bas ek raat. Please.”
Maa’s eyes flashed. “Please? Tumne bet lagayi aur ab please? Aur tum, Chacha—tumhe sharam nahi aati? Main tumhari bhabhi hoon!”
Chacha stood too, stepping close. “Bhabhi… mujhe pata hai aapko kabhi-kabhi rough pasand aata hai. Main jaanta hoon. Bas aaj… mujhe karne do. Aapko achha lagega.”
Maa stepped back. “Nahin. Main mana karti hoon. Yeh galat hai.”
But her body betrayed her.
Her breathing had quickened. Her chest rose and fell faster under the blouse. Nipples hardened visibly through the thin maroon cotton—two dark points pressing out. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, a faint tremble running through them. The anger in her eyes was real, but the flush creeping up her neck and chest was deeper, hotter.
Papa noticed. “… tumhari saans tez ho rahi hai.”
Maa glared at him. “Chup! Yeh garmi ki wajah se hai.”
Chacha stepped closer—close enough that she could feel his heat. “Bhabhi… aap jhoot bol rahi ho. Aapki aankhein bol rahi hain. Aapka jism bol raha hai.”
Maa’s hands clenched into fists. “Nahin….”
But she didn’t move away when Chacha’s hand rose slowly and cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed her lower lip. She flinched—but didn’t pull back. Her lips parted slightly. A small, involuntary gasp escaped.
Chacha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Bhabhi… bas ek raat. Agar aapko sach mein pasand nahi aaya, toh main kabhi nahi rough karege. Par aaj… mujhe karne do.”
Maa’s eyes closed for a second. When they opened, the anger was still there, but something else burned underneath—need, raw and undeniable.
She looked at Papa. “Tumne yeh bet lagayi. Ab dekhte raho. Aur yaad rakhna—yeh tumhari wajah se ho raha hai.”
Then she turned to Chacha. “Theek hai. Aaj. Par sirf aaj. Aur agar mujhe pasand nahi aaya, toh yeh kabhi nahi hoga.”
Chacha’s smile was slow, predatory. “Ji, Bhabhi.”
He didn’t waste time.
He grabbed her wrist—hard—and pulled her toward the bedroom. Maa stumbled slightly, but followed. Papa trailed behind, face pale, cock already straining in his trousers.
Inside the room, Chacha pushed her against the wall—back first, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. “Bhabhi… aaj main aaoko chod ke chod ke rula doonga.”
Maa’s breath hitched. “Devar ji… dheere…”
“Nahin.” He slapped her ass through the saree—hard. The sound cracked like a whip. Maa gasped, body jerking forward. “Yeh dheere nahi hota.”
Another slap—harder. Red bloomed under the fabric. Maa moaned—protest turning into something else. “Ahh… nahin…”
Chacha yanked her saree up roughly, bunching it at her waist. No petticoat underneath—just bare skin. He slapped her bare ass—left cheek, right cheek, again and again until both were glowing red. Maa’s moans grew louder, hips pushing back instinctively. “Haan… aur…”
He spun her around, pushed her face-first against the wall. Pulled her hair back hard. Slapped her face—left cheek, then right. Not gentle. Hard enough to sting. Maa’s eyes watered, but her mouth opened in a moan. “Devar ji… zor se…”
Papa sat on the chair in the corner, trousers open, stroking himself desperately. “tumhe yeh pasand aa raha hai?”
Maa looked at him over her shoulder—eyes glassy, cheeks red from slaps. “Haan… bahut pasand. Devar ji jaante hai kaise dard dena… kaise chodna. Tum toh bas dekho aur jaldi khatam kar lo.”
Papa groaned—humiliated, broken—his hand a blur. “Aree yaar… please…”
“Chup,” she snapped. “Dekho kaise Mera devar mujhe chod raha hai.”
Chacha didn't wait. He flipped her onto her stomach rough—hands on her hips, yanking her ass up high like she weighed nothing. Mom went with it, knees spread wide, face down in the pillow, ass presented high.
Chacha slapped her ass—once, twice, then harder, the crack echoing like thunder. Red handprints bloomed fast on her fair skin. Mom moaned into the pillow, pushing back for more. "Aur zor se… meri gaand laal kar do!"
Chacha grabbed her hair—rough pull, yanking her head back so her neck arched painfully. "Bhabhi… kitni gandi ho aaj." He pushed three fingers inside her from behind—rough, deep, twisting hard. Wet squelching sounds filled the room. Mom cried out—moan mixed with scream. "Haan… poora andar daal do mere!"
Chacha slapped her face—harder this time, cheek turning red instantly. "Le… yeh le!" Another slap—other cheek. Mom's eyes watered, but she moaned louder, pushing back against his fingers.
Chacha pulled his fingers out—dripping, shining—and slapped her ass again, then her face—left, right, hard. "Ab asli cheez." He lined up, pushed in—hard, one brutal thrust. Mom's body jerked forward, breasts swinging wildly. She screamed—pleasure and pain mixed. "Devar ji… haan… phaad do meri gaand!" He grabbed her hips, pulled back, slammed in again—deep, punishing. Rough rhythm—slap of skin on skin, balls hitting her ass with every thrust. Mom pushed back, ass bouncing against him.
Chacha slapped her face again—harder, cheek swelling red. "Le… yeh le… randi!" Mom moaned louder—wild, lost. "Haan…hun mei randi… aur zor se!"
Dad groaned - He had never ever used the word “Randi” - He came fast, spilling over his fist in weak spurts, body shaking with humiliation. He looked away, sobbing quietly, cock limp and useless.
Chacha came last—deep, rough thrusts, groaning loud, filling her with hot spurts. They collapsed—Chacha on top, Mom trembling under him, red marks everywhere—ass, face, thighs—smiling through tears, completely sated.
Mom laughed softly—enjoying every second of this.
Then the mood shifted.
She pushed Chacha off gently, sat up, saree still bunched, body marked red. She looked at Papa—eyes softening now, anger gone.
She crawled over to him, sat on the edge of the bed in front of his chair. Reached out, cupped his face in both hands—thumbs wiping his tears.
"Suniye," she said softly, voice gentle for the first time that night. "Yeh sab maine sirf ek lesson ke liye kiya."
Papa looked up, eyes red, confused.
"Aapne bet lagayi. Mujhe cheez ki tarah treat kiya. Jaise main koi prize hoon jo jeeta ja sakta hai. Yeh galat tha. Bahut galat."
She leaned closer, kissed his forehead—soft, motherly. "Main aapki biwi hoon. Chacha ki bhi. Par main koi bet ka hissa nahi. Aaj maine yeh sab hone diya taaki aap samajh jao— yeh mera jism, mera mazaa, aap aise use nahi kar sakte. Kabhi nahi."
Papa nodded, tears falling faster. "Sorry, Jaan… main galat tha. Kabhi nahi karunga aisa."
Maa smiled—small, real. "Achha bacha. Ab se no bets. No games. Sirf pyaar aur respect. Theek hai?"
Papa nodded again, voice choked. "Theek hai."
She kissed him softly on the lips—gentle, forgiving. Then stood up, adjusted her saree, looked at Chacha. "Devar ji, Tum bhi sun lo. Aaj ke baad sirf jab main chahungi. Samjhe?"
Chacha nodded quickly. "Ji, Bhabhi."
Maa walked to the door, paused, looked back at Papa. "Aur aap… mei aapse behtar expect karti hoon, aap abde ho”
Papa whispered, "Okay."
She smiled once more—warm, tired—and left the room.
![[Image: image.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/CZFyWbV/image.jpg)
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when the bet happened. The family was gathered in the living room—Papa and Chacha on the sofa, watching a cricket match between India and Australia. Maa was in the kitchen preparing snacks, her saree dbangd loosely, the pallu slipping occasionally as she moved. I sat in the corner, half-watching the TV, half-listening to their banter.
Papa, ever the confident one, leaned back with a grin. "Yeh match toh hamara hai, Chacha. Kohli aaj century maarega. Bet lagao?"
Chacha chuckled, eyes flicking toward the kitchen where Maa bent to pull out a tray from the oven, her hips swaying slightly. "Theek hai, Bhaiya. Agar India jeeti, toh main aapke liye naya Bat khareedunga. Par agar haare, toh…?" He trailed off, a sly smile playing on his lips.
Papa's eyes narrowed, the match forgotten for a moment. He glanced at Maa too, then lowered his voice. "Agar haare, toh aaj raat… tum apni Bhabhi ko apne tarike se khush kar sakte ho. Rough, jaise tum chahte ho.. Main sirf dekhunga."
Chacha's face flushed, but he nodded quickly. "Theek hai, Bhaiya. Bet pakki."
Maa walked in just then, carrying the tray of pakoras. "Kya bet pakki? Match ki baat kar rahe ho?" She set the tray down, her pallu slipping to reveal the curve of her waist. She didn't fix it right away, bending low enough that the blouse gaped slightly, showing the swell of her breasts.
Papa cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly. "Haan, bas match ki. India jeetegi."
Chacha just nodded, his eyes lingering on her exposed skin. Maa smiled faintly, straightening up. "Achha? Dekhte hain." She sat between them on the sofa, her thigh brushing Papa's, her arm close to Chacha's. The air thickened as the match played on.
India lost. Badly. Kohli out for a duck, the team collapsing under pressure. Papa groaned, head in hands. Chacha's smile was quiet but triumphant.
That Night, Papa cleared his throat first, voice low. “Suno… humne bet lagayi thi. Match ki. Main haara.”
Maa raised an eyebrow, amused. “Toh? Kya jeeta Devar ji ne?”
Chacha shifted closer, his thigh pressing against hers. His voice was thick. “Bhabhi… aaj raat aapko… main apne tarike se khush karunga. Rough tarike se. Bhaiya sirf dekhenge.”
Maa froze. The smile vanished. “Kya? Yeh kya bakwas hai? Main koi cheez hoon jo tum logon ki bet mein jeeti jaati hoon?” She stood up, pallu falling off her shoulder in anger. “Nahin! Yeh galat hai. Main koi toy nahi hoon jo tum log baantoge!”
Papa looked down, ashamed. “Yaar… bet hai. Aur… main haara. Bas ek raat. Please.”
Maa’s eyes flashed. “Please? Tumne bet lagayi aur ab please? Aur tum, Chacha—tumhe sharam nahi aati? Main tumhari bhabhi hoon!”
Chacha stood too, stepping close. “Bhabhi… mujhe pata hai aapko kabhi-kabhi rough pasand aata hai. Main jaanta hoon. Bas aaj… mujhe karne do. Aapko achha lagega.”
Maa stepped back. “Nahin. Main mana karti hoon. Yeh galat hai.”
But her body betrayed her.
Her breathing had quickened. Her chest rose and fell faster under the blouse. Nipples hardened visibly through the thin maroon cotton—two dark points pressing out. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, a faint tremble running through them. The anger in her eyes was real, but the flush creeping up her neck and chest was deeper, hotter.
Papa noticed. “… tumhari saans tez ho rahi hai.”
Maa glared at him. “Chup! Yeh garmi ki wajah se hai.”
Chacha stepped closer—close enough that she could feel his heat. “Bhabhi… aap jhoot bol rahi ho. Aapki aankhein bol rahi hain. Aapka jism bol raha hai.”
Maa’s hands clenched into fists. “Nahin….”
But she didn’t move away when Chacha’s hand rose slowly and cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed her lower lip. She flinched—but didn’t pull back. Her lips parted slightly. A small, involuntary gasp escaped.
Chacha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Bhabhi… bas ek raat. Agar aapko sach mein pasand nahi aaya, toh main kabhi nahi rough karege. Par aaj… mujhe karne do.”
Maa’s eyes closed for a second. When they opened, the anger was still there, but something else burned underneath—need, raw and undeniable.
She looked at Papa. “Tumne yeh bet lagayi. Ab dekhte raho. Aur yaad rakhna—yeh tumhari wajah se ho raha hai.”
Then she turned to Chacha. “Theek hai. Aaj. Par sirf aaj. Aur agar mujhe pasand nahi aaya, toh yeh kabhi nahi hoga.”
Chacha’s smile was slow, predatory. “Ji, Bhabhi.”
He didn’t waste time.
He grabbed her wrist—hard—and pulled her toward the bedroom. Maa stumbled slightly, but followed. Papa trailed behind, face pale, cock already straining in his trousers.
Inside the room, Chacha pushed her against the wall—back first, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. “Bhabhi… aaj main aaoko chod ke chod ke rula doonga.”
Maa’s breath hitched. “Devar ji… dheere…”
“Nahin.” He slapped her ass through the saree—hard. The sound cracked like a whip. Maa gasped, body jerking forward. “Yeh dheere nahi hota.”
Another slap—harder. Red bloomed under the fabric. Maa moaned—protest turning into something else. “Ahh… nahin…”
Chacha yanked her saree up roughly, bunching it at her waist. No petticoat underneath—just bare skin. He slapped her bare ass—left cheek, right cheek, again and again until both were glowing red. Maa’s moans grew louder, hips pushing back instinctively. “Haan… aur…”
He spun her around, pushed her face-first against the wall. Pulled her hair back hard. Slapped her face—left cheek, then right. Not gentle. Hard enough to sting. Maa’s eyes watered, but her mouth opened in a moan. “Devar ji… zor se…”
Papa sat on the chair in the corner, trousers open, stroking himself desperately. “tumhe yeh pasand aa raha hai?”
Maa looked at him over her shoulder—eyes glassy, cheeks red from slaps. “Haan… bahut pasand. Devar ji jaante hai kaise dard dena… kaise chodna. Tum toh bas dekho aur jaldi khatam kar lo.”
Papa groaned—humiliated, broken—his hand a blur. “Aree yaar… please…”
“Chup,” she snapped. “Dekho kaise Mera devar mujhe chod raha hai.”
Chacha didn't wait. He flipped her onto her stomach rough—hands on her hips, yanking her ass up high like she weighed nothing. Mom went with it, knees spread wide, face down in the pillow, ass presented high.
Chacha slapped her ass—once, twice, then harder, the crack echoing like thunder. Red handprints bloomed fast on her fair skin. Mom moaned into the pillow, pushing back for more. "Aur zor se… meri gaand laal kar do!"
Chacha grabbed her hair—rough pull, yanking her head back so her neck arched painfully. "Bhabhi… kitni gandi ho aaj." He pushed three fingers inside her from behind—rough, deep, twisting hard. Wet squelching sounds filled the room. Mom cried out—moan mixed with scream. "Haan… poora andar daal do mere!"
Chacha slapped her face—harder this time, cheek turning red instantly. "Le… yeh le!" Another slap—other cheek. Mom's eyes watered, but she moaned louder, pushing back against his fingers.
Chacha pulled his fingers out—dripping, shining—and slapped her ass again, then her face—left, right, hard. "Ab asli cheez." He lined up, pushed in—hard, one brutal thrust. Mom's body jerked forward, breasts swinging wildly. She screamed—pleasure and pain mixed. "Devar ji… haan… phaad do meri gaand!" He grabbed her hips, pulled back, slammed in again—deep, punishing. Rough rhythm—slap of skin on skin, balls hitting her ass with every thrust. Mom pushed back, ass bouncing against him.
Chacha slapped her face again—harder, cheek swelling red. "Le… yeh le… randi!" Mom moaned louder—wild, lost. "Haan…hun mei randi… aur zor se!"
Dad groaned - He had never ever used the word “Randi” - He came fast, spilling over his fist in weak spurts, body shaking with humiliation. He looked away, sobbing quietly, cock limp and useless.
Chacha came last—deep, rough thrusts, groaning loud, filling her with hot spurts. They collapsed—Chacha on top, Mom trembling under him, red marks everywhere—ass, face, thighs—smiling through tears, completely sated.
Mom laughed softly—enjoying every second of this.
Then the mood shifted.
She pushed Chacha off gently, sat up, saree still bunched, body marked red. She looked at Papa—eyes softening now, anger gone.
She crawled over to him, sat on the edge of the bed in front of his chair. Reached out, cupped his face in both hands—thumbs wiping his tears.
"Suniye," she said softly, voice gentle for the first time that night. "Yeh sab maine sirf ek lesson ke liye kiya."
Papa looked up, eyes red, confused.
"Aapne bet lagayi. Mujhe cheez ki tarah treat kiya. Jaise main koi prize hoon jo jeeta ja sakta hai. Yeh galat tha. Bahut galat."
She leaned closer, kissed his forehead—soft, motherly. "Main aapki biwi hoon. Chacha ki bhi. Par main koi bet ka hissa nahi. Aaj maine yeh sab hone diya taaki aap samajh jao— yeh mera jism, mera mazaa, aap aise use nahi kar sakte. Kabhi nahi."
Papa nodded, tears falling faster. "Sorry, Jaan… main galat tha. Kabhi nahi karunga aisa."
Maa smiled—small, real. "Achha bacha. Ab se no bets. No games. Sirf pyaar aur respect. Theek hai?"
Papa nodded again, voice choked. "Theek hai."
She kissed him softly on the lips—gentle, forgiving. Then stood up, adjusted her saree, looked at Chacha. "Devar ji, Tum bhi sun lo. Aaj ke baad sirf jab main chahungi. Samjhe?"
Chacha nodded quickly. "Ji, Bhabhi."
Maa walked to the door, paused, looked back at Papa. "Aur aap… mei aapse behtar expect karti hoon, aap abde ho”
Papa whispered, "Okay."
She smiled once more—warm, tired—and left the room.
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