25-02-2026, 05:57 PM
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.
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.
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