Fantasy My Conservative Mom Trapped in Weird Circumstances- Revived

[Innocent_Pervert]

Hey There, everyone first of all I would like to apologise to everyone for leaving the earlier story mid way as i was lost in life and have now decided to give it another shot.

Well Let me Introduce my Family-

We are a family of 4 - Mom (46), Dad (50), Me (23) and my Sister (19)


My Extended Family - 

Dad has Two Brothers: One elder to him (I call him Taau) & One Younger to him (I call him Chacha)

My Taau (53) is married and has 2 Children (23 F & 26 M) whereas my Chacha (48) is a widower now with no family of his own. My Dad and Taau live away from the native place, they had moved out for work.

My Chacha also wanted to join them but was not allowed to join them as they needed someone to stay back and look-after ageing parents, he stayed back and missed on all the opportunities my dad and taau had.

After demise of his wife and my Grandpa, he suddenly felt a void which no one could fill. He had no savings and was entirely dependent on the pension that my Grandma received. A natural thought in his mind that what will happen to him after her?? 

My grandma did sense this out of him, she was worried even. She wanted him to remarry but who will give their daughter to someone who is 48 now and has no money of his own plus does nothing whole day. Also my Dad and Taau did not like the idea and hence never succeded.

When my Grandma was sick, we all panicked. My Dad immediately arranged for sending my Mom to our native to help uncle in taking care of her. My mom although did not like the idea that she was being sent alone and there was no effort from my Taau side family, there was a dispute between my parents but nonetheless she was sent alone.

After about 6 months, I could sense the communication gap between my parents rising. Dad started remaining visibly irritated at home. May be because he was not being appreciated for all the efforts that he was putting. He had sent his wife to take care of his mom away from him- Mom was angry as she was pushed into this without her consent and jealous of how my Taau always escapes from all this, my grandmothers condition had improved but she was now even more concerned for my Chacha. 

On the other hand, there was a separate idea budding in my Grandma's brain, Since the day my mom arrived my Uncles mood had improved. He smiled more, he was happier and there was some some life back in him. This small change made my Grandma very happy.

Whenever my dad asked to bring back my mom, my grandma made some or the other excuse and avoided the topic. (The reason for this behaviour is because she actually pities my uncle and she blames herself for ruining his life).

Suddenly my grand mother fell sick, me & dad rushed to our native. She was admitted, and everything changed from there. Inside the hospital she asked my dad, that her wish is to see my uncle's life settled. My dad said that he will do everything in power to get this done. My Grandma looked with pleading eyes at him and said would you allow your wife to serve my uncle as well.. This was a shocker for him. But being the dutiful son that he is, how could he let his mothers final wish go unanswered.

He gathered all the courage and spoke with my uncle about his opinion... my uncle couldn't believe what he had just hear. He asked my dad- "Are you in sense? Bhabi will never agree"

Dad -"That I will take care, As this is maa's final wish we have no choice, even you need to agree"

Uncle-"Well if you are forcing me too, Yes.."

My dad then went to my mom.. this is gonna be a difficult conversation, they haven't spoken clearly for months and my mom is already angry on him for sending her alone to this place all alone.

Do you think I should Continue this?

[Fing fing]

welcome innocent pervert after a long time.You should continue brother with no hesitation and do not keep it incomplete.This just a gem story in xossipy.Add pics and gifs to make it more sexy.This time pls complete 

Please make mom complete property of chacha only little by little.There should be fight between father and chacha and cucky son witness and feel jealous on overall process.No other male to touch mom.It's a fight between father and chacha.obivously chachi with big cock will turn the game...  

 Earlier,You made a grave mistake by allowing train ticket collector or other male  to have sex with mom ,it just made her slut and with that image of slut no erotic feeling was left.Story need a cuckson jealous like father and son losing mom to chacha.......family become mess... to add intense spice to the story.Exclusivity will take the story on new height.
It will be erotic to see son calling mom when she is with father but when with chacha,he have to call aunty or chachi etc.Add humiliation and dark theme with cucky concept.

This time do not make her slut instead stick between father and chacha only.

Please update next part; this time make it hotter cuckold dad and cucky  son losing his mom completely to widow chacha. Make it darker,humiliation ,son calling mom aunty or chachi....

update and continue...

[6sense]

welcome innocent pervert after a long time.You should continue brother with no hesitation and do not keep it incomplete.This just a gem story in xossipy.Add pics and gifs to make it more sexy.This time pls complete 

Please make mom complete property of chacha only little by little.There should be fight between father and chacha and cucky son witness and feel jealous on overall process.No other male to touch mom.It's a fight between father and chacha.obivously chachi with big cock will turn the game...  

 Earlier,You made a grave mistake by allowing train ticket collector or other male  to have sex with mom ,it just made her slut and with that image of slut no erotic feeling was left.Story need a cuckson jealous like father and son losing mom to chacha.......family become mess... to add intense spice to the story.Exclusivity will take the story on new height.
It will be erotic to see son calling mom when she is with father but when with chacha,he have to call aunty or chachi etc.Add humiliation and dark theme with cucky concept.

This time do not make her slut instead stick between father and chacha only.

Please update next part; this time make it hotter cuckold dad and cucky  son losing his mom completely to widow chacha. Make it darker,humiliation ,son calling mom aunty or chachi....

update and continue...

please continue the story. I completely agree with with Fing fing's comment. Mom is wife of both males Dad and chacha. There should be theme of jealousy with cuckold with no other male. No need to make her slut. Update

[6sense]

Mom  at age of 46 years



Mom after few days of marriage with chacha and cuckold dad and cuckson with no knowledge.Chacha is jobless and have only job now to fuck mom day and night.

[Sexone]

please update???

[Jyoti_F]

Too soon .. develop the character first.. uncles fantasy for the mom from early time ...going too fast .. understand the difference between adult story and porn vedios.. story reader wants smooth story telling so that they can feel the character around themselves...

[Repsbanna]

Kab ayega update

[Sexone]

update next part!!!

[Deep seed]

Transition of mom to chachi. Chacha will fuck your mom ...too hot cuck

[Innocent_Pervert]

My father gathered what little courage he had and went to my mother. There was no softness in his voice, no hesitation. He told her of my grandmother’s final wish and spoke as if it were a duty already decided, not a question that needed asking. He said she must marry my uncle and become a dutiful wife to him.

My mother was stunned. What followed was not anger at first, but disbelief—pure and hollow. After all the years she had spent as his wife, after the life they had built together, he could stand before her and reduce their relationship to an obligation that could be reassigned. When the reality sank in, she broke down. She shouted, pleaded, cried until her face was wet with tears, begging him to see what he was asking of her.

He did not move. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond her, already committed to being the dutiful son he had chosen to be.

Desperate, my mother tried one final, reckless attempt—to shake him, to awaken jealousy, to remind him that she was still a woman and not a responsibility to be transferred. She told him that if she were forced into this, she would give herself completely, without distinction. She spoke words meant to wound, even hinted that his younger brother might make her happier, that she might even bear his children.

She waited for outrage. For anger. For anything.

My father agreed.

And in that moment, she understood that she had already lost him.

The stage was set. It was decided that the marriage would take place in secret. Only a handful of close relatives were informed—not out of respect, but precaution. My uncle wanted witnesses, insurance against the possibility that my parents might object later, as if consent could be retroactively secured.

When the relatives arrived, they came not with joy, but with astonishment. They had gathered to witness something unnatural unfold before their eyes—a woman in her mid-forties being remarried while her husband was still alive, standing there not as a victim or an opponent, but as a willing participant. This was not celebration. It was curiosity. Disbelief. Silent judgment.

The rituals were performed. The words were spoken. No one asked my mother how she felt.

By the end of that day, everything had changed.

My mother now had two husbands.

I could see the disbelief in everyone’s eyes, and I felt it settle on my skin like shame. The woman who had once been respected for her faith, her discipline, her quiet dignity, was no longer seen as a mother or a wife. In their eyes, she had been reduced to something else entirely—something to be looked at, evaluated, consumed.

The fact that she now had two husbands did not make her more powerful. It made her smaller in their minds. Men no longer spoke of her with respect, but with curiosity and hunger, as if her worth had shifted overnight. As if having been claimed twice somehow stripped her of her womanhood instead of affirming it.

I caught a glimpse of my father’s face. There was sadness there, unmistakable and heavy. My mother, however, burned with something else entirely—pure anger. She wanted him to stop it, even now, even at the last moment. But he stood frozen, as though his promise had bound his hands tighter than any rope.

The whispers spread like smoke.

People speculated where she would sleep. They laughed nervously, crudely, turning her life into a joke they could pass between themselves. Some spoke with envy, others with admiration for a man who had never been admired before. They praised his luck, his fortune, his conquest—while erasing her completely.

No one defended her.

And in that silence, the damage was done.

We came back home late. Someone switched on the lights. Someone else switched them off again. 

My mother went straight to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the same clothes. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even sigh. She just sat there, staring at the floor, as if she were waiting for instructions that never came.

My father hovered near the door. He tried to say her name once, softly, but it landed badly and he stopped. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then walked away, as if leaving might hurt less than staying.

The house felt smaller that night.

Someone asked where dinner was. Someone else said they weren’t hungry. Plates stayed stacked in the kitchen. The clock kept ticking, loud and irritating, marking time as if nothing had changed.

Later, the question no one wanted to ask finally surfaced — not in words, but in movement. My father paused outside the bedroom, then slowly turned away. My mother noticed. Her jaw tightened. That was the first crack.

She followed him into the hallway.
“You could have stopped this,” she said. Her voice was steady, which somehow made it worse.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t apologize either. He just said, “Maa’s wish,” as if that explained everything.

My mother laughed then — a short, bitter sound that didn’t belong to humor. “So this is my life now?” she asked. “A promise you made for me?”

He had no answer.

That night, no one slept properly. Doors were closed, then opened, then closed again. Everyone lay awake, listening to the same house they had lived in for years, now unfamiliar, as if it had quietly taken sides.

The next morning, routines resumed. Tea was made. Bags were packed. Conversations were practical and careful. It was worse than shouting. Because it meant this wasn’t a mistake.

It was permanent.

[Innocent_Pervert]

The next day settled into a dull routine. Grandma had survived the illness, but she could see how heavy the silence and tension weighed on everyone at home. To shake things up, she made a rule: Mom was to sleep between Dad and Uncle.

First Night Together-

Mom (inner feelings) -

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying down, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled the same as it always had, but everything felt foreign. She felt like a guest in her own life.

Between the two of them, she tried to make herself small, careful not to disturb, careful not to be seen as weak. Every tiny shift, every cough, every faint creak of the mattress made her flinch. She wanted to scream, to push, to leave — but she stayed, counting her breaths, letting her mind wander to a place they couldn’t reach.

Sleep came in fragments. Not rest, not peace, only the quiet endurance of being trapped in someone else’s plan.


Dad (inner feelings)-

He lay facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Every so often, he stole a glance at her. She was tense, rigid, silent — and he felt the weight of the choice he had made press down on her.

He had kept his promise, yet it felt hollow. The house was silent, but inside him, questions and guilt churned. Could he have stopped this? Should he have? He didn’t know.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to convince himself that tomorrow, the world would seem normal again. But he knew it wouldn’t.

Uncle (inner feelings)-

He lay close, almost aching with anticipation. Tonight, for the first time, he truly saw her — not just as his brother’s wife, not just as the woman he had known from a distance, but as someone entirely new, fragile and fierce all at once.

Her face in the dim light was softer, the lines around her eyes telling stories he had never paused to notice before. Her lips, usually pressed tight in frustration or silence, now seemed fuller, vulnerable — as if holding words she dared not speak.

He watched her arms, folded tensely across her chest, the slight tremor in her fingers betraying the storm beneath her calm exterior. Those arms, he thought, were strong enough to hold a family, yet now they seemed fragile, almost hesitant to reach out.

Everything about her looked different — every breath, every blink, every subtle movement made him want to lean closer, to trace those curves with his eyes, to feel the quiet warmth she carried so silently.

He imagined reaching out, letting a hand brush softly against hers, hoping for a spark, a response, anything at all. Desire mingled with awe, a deep, restless hunger to know her beyond the roles they were forced to play.

Every small gesture, every twitch of her fingers or shift of her body, amplified the longing he felt. He wanted to cross the distance that kept them apart, to be closer, yet feared that any movement could shatter the fragile silence she maintained.

For the first time, he understood that this was no longer just about permission or duty. It was about wanting her entirely, yet having to navigate a delicate, unspoken boundary. And that hunger made him ache all the more.

Tension in the Room-

They didn’t speak. Every small noise seemed amplified — a rustle of sheets, a sigh, the faint ticking of the clock. They all tried to make themselves invisible.

In that quiet room, Lust, desire, guilt, anger, and frustration mingled silently. No one moved closer, no one spoke, yet everyone was painfully aware of the other’s presence.


The next morning 

The house felt unusually quiet, almost fragile, as if it were holding its breath. Mother moved through it carefully, each step measured, each word clipped. She kept her hands busy — pouring tea, arranging breakfast — as if motion alone could anchor her in a world that suddenly felt uncertain. 

Every glance from Dad, every lingering look from Uncle, made her stomach tighten. She reminded herself to breathe, to keep control, but the awareness of being watched never left her.

Dad sat at the edge of the table, pretending to read the newspaper but unable to focus. Each time Mother’s eyes flicked toward him, even for a fraction of a second, and then quickly away, he felt the hollow ache of what he had allowed. He longed for the simple comfort of normalcy, for laughter to fill the room again, but the house now hummed with quiet tension, every gesture loaded with unspoken meaning.

Uncle, meanwhile, found himself caught in a storm of feeling he had kept buried for years. Every motion she made — the sway of her shoulders, the way her fingers brushed the rim of a cup, the slight tilt of her head as she concentrated — tightened something in his chest. 
He wanted to reach out, to close the invisible distance, to feel a connection he had longed for all his life, but he held himself back. One careless movement could shatter the fragile balance Mother had worked so hard to maintain.

The day unfolded like a delicate dance. Each of them navigated the shared spaces with care, careful not to provoke, careful not to reveal too much. Meals were quiet, each conversation polite but clipped. The house smelled of cooked vegetables and fresh tea — ordinary scents, but now tinged with something heavier, unspoken, almost electric.

At night, the bedroom took on a different weight. The bed felt smaller, the air heavier, charged with quiet tension. Mother lay between them, rigid and alert, counting her own movements as if they were the only thing she could control. Dad faced the wall, pretending to sleep, but his awareness of every twitch, every breath, made the night seem endless. Uncle’s eyes followed her involuntarily, drinking in the softness of her face in the dim light, the gentle tension of her arms folded across her chest, the subtle curve of her shoulders, the faint tremor of her fingers. Each detail sparked longing in him, a silent ache he could neither name nor act upon.

And yet, amid the stillness and restraint, something unspoken began to form: a rhythm, fragile and tentative, of proximity and distance, of longing restrained by caution. Words were unnecessary; every glance, every sigh, every careful movement conveyed a quiet, intricate language that only they understood. The bed, the room, the house — everything had shifted, and with it, each of them had shifted too.
By the end of the first week, routines had begun to adapt to this strange new reality. Mother had found subtle ways to assert herself, keeping her independence and boundaries intact. Dad carried his guilt silently, his efforts to act normal more a mask than comfort. Uncle learned to exist in the tension of desire, aware of every nuance but holding himself back. Every gesture, every look, every pause carried weight, a silent code written in the shared space of the house.

The house was no longer the same, and neither were they. Days stretched ahead, filled with quiet tension, unspoken longing, and the slow evolution of lives bound together by duty, restraint, and the fragile negotiation of closeness.

[Innocent_Pervert]

A few days later, Dad announced he had to leave for a short office trip. Slowly, the house started feeling more alive. Mother went about her chores with quiet confidence, and Uncle was always nearby, quietly attentive, yet careful not to intrude. It was in the small, almost accidental moments that their connection began to grow.

One afternoon, Mother reached for a spice jar on the top shelf, and Uncle stepped forward to steady her chair. Their hands brushed — light, fleeting — but instead of pulling away, Mother let it linger for a moment longer than usual. A little warmth spread through her chest, and she smiled quietly to herself, surprised at how natural it felt. Uncle’s eyes flickered up at her, a small, shy smile on his face, but he didn’t say anything. No words were needed.

Later, in the kitchen, they moved around each other with an easy rhythm. He handed her a towel, and their fingers met briefly as she took it. She laughed softly at the “accident,” and he smiled back, a little embarrassed, a little pleased. These touches, so ordinary yet full of meaning, became their own language — gentle, tentative, and comforting.

Even in quiet moments, the closeness was noticeable. While folding laundry together, their arms brushed repeatedly, and Mother realised she didn’t mind at all. There was something grounding about his presence, a quiet reassurance in every small gesture. Uncle, for his part, kept his glances soft, his attentiveness careful, fully aware that she was letting him in, without a single word being exchanged.
Over cups of tea in the evenings, they would sit a little closer than necessary, their knees occasionally brushing under the table. Small smiles passed between them, easy laughter spilling into the room. 

The romance wasn’t loud or dramatic — it was in the lightness of shared spaces, in the accidental touches that needed no apology, in the growing comfort of simply being near each other.

By the end of the week, a new kind of intimacy had begun to settle in. Mother moved more freely, Uncle’s presence felt softer, less tense, and their shared moments — brief, fleeting, yet meaningful — hinted at the slow, quiet romance that was gradually shaping their lives together.

My Perspective (In dads absence)

From my room, I could hear the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the low hum of conversation, and sometimes a light laugh that sounded almost strange to me. At first, it made me feel out of place, like I was peeking into a part of life that didn’t belong to me. Mother and Uncle were careful, polite, but there was a warmth in the way they interacted — a softness in her voice, a gentleness in his hands — that I hadn’t seen before.

I noticed little things that made my stomach twist with confusion. How Mother’s smile would linger for a moment after her hand brushed against Uncle’s. How Uncle handed her a towel or a cup and then hesitated, just a second too long, before stepping back. It made me uneasy sometimes, even a little jealous — I wasn’t used to seeing them like this.

But slowly, I began to see the care behind it. I saw how Mother moved more freely, how she laughed more easily, how she seemed lighter in her steps. Uncle was always attentive but careful, never crossing any line, always making her feel safe. It wasn’t just closeness — it was respect, patience, and something quiet that seemed to grow between them with every small gesture.

Sometimes, I found myself smiling, quietly, at their little domestic rhythms — the shared laughter over a spilled cup of tea, the brief accidental touches while folding laundry, the gentle teasing that made her laugh without fear. At first, it had felt strange, almost wrong, but now I could see it for what it was: a new kind of love, soft and patient, growing in its own time.

I realized slowly that love didn’t always have to be loud or dramatic. It could be in shared glances, quiet jokes, gentle touches, and the comfort of simply being near someone. The house had changed, yes, but it was beginning to feel alive in a new way — warm, steady, and filled with a rhythm that included all three of us.

[Innocent_Pervert]

Dad was away on his trip, and the house suddenly felt… different. Quieter, yes, but also somehow heavier, charged with a tension I could sense from the doorway. Mother moved through the chores with her usual grace, but today there was something else — a confidence, a deliberate sway in her steps, the way she tied her pallu slightly looser, letting her hair fall over her shoulder.


Uncle followed closely, like a shadow, his gaze lingering a moment too long. He was mesmerized by the curve of her waist as she leaned over the sink to wash dishes, the subtle movement of her shoulders when she stretched to reach the top shelf, the casual elegance in her every gesture. His chest tightened, but he kept his distance, careful not to overstep — though his eyes betrayed him.

Mother noticed. Oh, she noticed. And she decided to have a little fun. As she bent to pick up a fallen utensil, she let her hip shift slightly, just enough for him to notice. When she straightened, she gave him a teasing glance, a small smile playing on her lips, and whispered under her breath, almost as if testing him: “You really are staring too much, aren’t you?” Uncle blinked, caught off guard, his throat dry. He opened his mouth to reply but ended up just fumbling for a word, while she chuckled softly and returned to her chores, walking with a deliberately slow, teasing rhythm.

Later, in the kitchen, she pulled out a chair for herself and leaned back with exaggerated care, resting one hand on her waist, making sure he saw the movement. Uncle, trying to help her, reached to steady the chair, and their hands brushed — this time, neither pulled away quickly. I could see the flush rise on his cheeks, the small hitch in his breath, and the faint curve of a smile forming on Mother’s lips. She knew exactly the effect she had on him.

Even in the garden, the game continued. She bent over to inspect a plant, her hair falling forward, shoulders moving fluidly, hips tilting as she straightened. Uncle’s gaze followed her every movement, subtle longing in his eyes. She caught him looking, smirked slightly, and leaned toward him just a little more than necessary, testing him without words. He looked away immediately, embarrassed, yet the way he lingered near her, ready to assist, said more than words ever could.

From my corner of the room, I couldn’t believe what I was watching. Uncle’s longing was obvious, but Mother wasn’t shy — she was playing with it, teasing him in small, perfectly calculated ways, bending, stretching, moving with awareness, letting him admire without letting him cross the line. The air itself seemed thick with tension, every glance and brush of a hand charged with unspoken meaning.

By evening, the house smelled of cooking, damp earth from the garden, and a strange, quiet electricity. Uncle moved carefully, aware of her presence, attentive in ways I hadn’t seen before. Mother carried herself like someone enjoying her power, teasing, bending, smiling, letting him notice her in ways that were playful but respectful. And me? I just watched, caught between embarrassment and fascination, as ordinary chores became a game of subtle attraction and quiet chemistry — a dance neither of them had fully acknowledged but both clearly felt.

That Night

The house had finally quieted down, except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan. I could hear Mother moving around the bedroom, picking up stray laundry, straightening things, and arranging the room with her usual care. Uncle was sitting at the edge of the bed, pretending to read a book, but I could tell he wasn’t reading a word — his eyes kept drifting toward her.

Of course, Mother noticed. She let her hair fall lazily over one shoulder, stretched slowly, and bent down to tuck in a stray sheet. The way she moved was deliberate, almost playful. Uncle’s gaze followed her every movement, restrained but intense. I could see the slight hitch in his breath whenever she shifted — the way her waist curved as she leaned, the gentle slope of her shoulders catching the dim light. The space between them suddenly felt heavier, charged in a way I had never noticed before.

She caught him staring. Instead of looking away, she smiled knowingly, leaning just slightly toward him as she picked up a pillow. “You’re not even reading that, are you?” she said softly, teasing him, almost whispering. Uncle flushed, fumbled with the book, and gave her a guilty, sheepish grin.

Later, when she sat beside him to fold a sheet, their knees brushed lightly. She leaned just slightly into him, letting him notice the subtle curve of her waist. For a moment, Uncle froze, his hand hovering mid-air, caught between wanting to be closer and knowing he shouldn’t. She tilted her head toward him, a small, teasing smile playing on her lips. “Careful… or you’ll hurt yourself staring,” she whispered.

Even getting ready for bed turned into a quiet, playful dance. She reached for her night blouse on the top shelf, and Uncle moved to help. Their hands met for a second, just long enough for her to give him a teasing glance before pulling away. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, caught between admiration and self-restraint.

From my corner of the room, hidden in shadows, I could feel the tension between them like electricity. Uncle’s longing was obvious, but Mother was clearly enjoying it — testing him, teasing him, guiding him with subtle gestures, all the while keeping him at just the right distance. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every small movement carried meaning without a single word spoken.

Eventually, the room quieted, and they settled into their respective sides of the bed. Uncle sat stiffly, still aware of her presence, while Mother adjusted the blanket and smiled faintly to herself, savoring the quiet power she held. Even as I drifted to sleep, I could sense that the playful tension, the teasing glances, and the slow, simmering pull between them hadn’t faded — it had only grown stronger.

By the time I closed my eyes, I realized something had changed. The night had amplified their unspoken game, strengthened the invisible threads between them, and turned what should have been an ordinary evening into a delicate, charged dance of glances, gestures, and quiet, playful teasing.

The next morning, the house felt lighter, though the tension from last night still lingered. Mother moved through the kitchen with her usual quiet confidence, humming softly as she arranged the dishes. Uncle hovered nearby, trying to look busy, but I could see his eyes constantly drifting to her.

When she bent to reach a jar on the top shelf, her kurta shifted gently, and for a moment, Uncle’s breath caught. He wasn’t staring inappropriately — it was more like awe, noticing the curves of her silhouette, the graceful slope of her shoulders, the way her body moved naturally. She caught his gaze, a playful sparkle in her eyes, and gave a little smile, as if saying, “Go on, notice me, but behave.” He flushed, fumbled with the spoon in his hand, and looked away quickly, though his admiration lingered.

Later, while setting the table, their arms brushed several times. She leaned slightly as she moved past him, letting him notice her deep neck just enough to make him self-conscious but enchanted. When she handed him a cup of tea, their fingers met briefly, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and she gave him a teasing glance. Uncle froze, heart racing, and she whispered softly, “Careful… don’t get lost staring.”

Even the act of sweeping the floor became part of the quiet game. She bent and stretched herself- breasts wanting to come out, and Uncle’s eyes followed instinctively, his admiration palpable. And she, bold and teasing, glanced over her shoulder at him, grinning softly, clearly aware of the effect she had on him.

From my corner, hidden in shadows, I could feel the tension like electricity. Uncle’s fascination was obvious, and Mother was enjoying it thoroughly — teasing, playful, letting him admire her form while keeping everything lighthearted. Even in a simple morning routine, a slow, delicate dance of attraction and restraint was unfolding right in front of me.

Mother Dilemma

It was just past noon, and the house was quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes and the soft hum of the ceiling fan. Mother was wiping down the kitchen counter, a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, when Uncle hovered nearby, helping to put away the freshly washed plates. I could see his eyes flicking to her constantly, careful, restrained, but clearly full of admiration.

Then the phone rang. Mother straightened immediately, a small sigh escaping her lips as she picked it up.

“Hello…” she said, her voice warm but calm.

It was Dad. From the first second, his tone carried a casual charm — light, teasing, almost flirtatious. “Hey, what’s my favourite woman up to today? Keeping my son in line, I hope?”

Mother’s smile softened, but a faint tightening appeared around her eyes. She tried to sound playful, but her mind immediately split into two: Dad on the phone, the voice she had trusted and loved for years, and Uncle standing just a few steps away, watching her, silent but fully aware.

“Just finishing some chores, haan,” she replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her words were polite, affectionate, but I could see her fingers fidgeting slightly with the hem of her kurta.

Dad laughed softly over the line, low and teasing. “Hmm… busy, busy. I wish I was there to see you in action. You always look so… so lovely, you know?”

Mother froze for a fraction of a second. Lovely? The word hung in the air. She could feel Uncle’s gaze on her, intense and warm, and suddenly the simple act of talking to Dad felt like a balancing act on a tightrope. Her chest tightened a little — partly from Dad’s words, partly from Uncle being so near.
“Oh… uh… thanks,” she murmured, her tone a mix of nervousness and amusement. “You’ll be back soon na? Then you can see everything yourself.”
Dad chuckled again, low and teasing. “Of course, sweetheat. But till then, don’t let anyone else distract you…”
Mother blinked. A flicker of colour rose in her cheeks. “Haan..?” she said softly, almost scolding, yet there was a warmth in her voice she couldn’t hide.

Uncle shifted behind her, hands frozen over the dishes. I could see him blush slightly, his admiration caught between fascination and restraint. He glanced down, trying to look busy, but his eyes kept flicking back, drawn to the soft curve of her chest and the gentle sway of her ass movements as she leaned slightly forward to steady the phone.

Mother, on the other hand, now felt the tug-of-war in her mind. On one side, Dad’s voice was comforting, familiar, and yes… a little flirty in that harmless way that made her pulse skip. On the other, Uncle’s quiet presence and the way he was watching her made her feel noticed, alive in a different way.

She laughed softly, a little nervously, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m just doing my work. And yes… I am staying careful.”
“Careful, haan?” Dad’s voice carried amusement, a teasing lilt that made her grin despite herself. “I better see you behaving when I’m back.”

Mother ended the call a few minutes later, placing the phone down gently. She exhaled slowly, a mix of relief and confusion. Uncle, still nearby, moved slightly to clear some dishes, but I could see his expression — quiet admiration, curiosity, and something almost reverent.

I watched her then, wondering what she was thinking. She straightened, brushing her hair back, and a faint smile curved her lips. It was subtle, playful, but there was tension in the air — a pull between the husband on the phone and the one standing right in front of her.

That afternoon, even the sunlight through the kitchen window seemed to pause, holding onto the delicate, charged space between them. For the first time, I realized — Mother’s heart, and her mind, were juggling two very different attentions, and the house had suddenly become a stage for a quiet, intricate dance of loyalty, attraction, and playful restraint.
 
What happens next??
 
 

[Godfaith]

unique and super hot. Use pics,gifs and caption for making story hotter.

Her new husband should fuck her so intense that she feels woman gain.such a cuckold who lose his wife and his loser cuckson .How hot to think uncle fucking his mom during his birthday or marriage anniversary or son hearing uncle ramming his mom or uncle planing a baby with your mom yet he is helpless.......too hot and chances of lot family drama and relative.waiting for more



even when you call your mom,she could'nt  come as her new hubby-uncle wiil be busy in banging mom so hot




waiting eagerly pls update !!!

[Innocent_Pervert]

Next Day, There was no rush, no tension in the air like before. Mother moved around the house calmly, finishing her prayers, doing her work at her own pace. Uncle stayed nearby most of the time, helping when needed, careful not to disturb her.


That evening, Mother went outside to water the plants near the gate. It was something she did regularly, without thinking much about it. She adjusted the pallu of her saree on her shoulder and bent slightly to pour water into the pots. Exposing her navel to the wind unintentionally.

Uncle stood a little behind her, near the door, pretending to look around. But his eyes kept going back to her waist again and again.

Across the road, the neighbour from the row house was standing near his gate.
He was not a stranger. He had been living there for many years. They had seen each other often — sometimes a small nod, sometimes a simple “hi”. Mother had never paid much attention to him earlier.
But today, he noticed her.

“Good evening,” he said, a little louder than usual.

Mother looked up and smiled politely. “Good evening.”

He hesitated for a second, then said, “You are looking nice today.”

She smiled again. “Thank you,” she said, adjusting her saree casually, trying to cover her exposed waist.
Nothing about the moment was wrong or awkward. It was normal. Still, the neighbour’s eyes stayed on her a little longer than usual.

Uncle noticed that. A strange feeling rose inside him. He felt uneasy without knowing why. He straightened himself and looked away, trying not to react.

Mother sensed it immediately.

She turned slightly towards Uncle and said softly, “What happened? Why are you standing so stiff?”

Then, with a faint smile, she added, “You worry too much for small things.”

The neighbour continued talking casually about the weather and the heat. Mother replied politely, keeping the conversation short. To him, it was just a normal sight — bhabi and devar standing together outside the house.
After a few moments, the neighbour excused himself and went back inside.

The silence returned.

Mother finished watering the plants and turned back towards the house. As she walked past Uncle, the saree settled naturally around her as she stopped. She looked at him and gave a calm, reassuring smile.

“See,” she said softly. “Your eyes cant hide your jealosy”

Uncle let out a slow breath.

The house felt the same, yet different. What had once felt private now carried a quiet awareness, as if the outside world had briefly looked in.
 
Fun ends – Unexpected Guest Arrives-

The sound of the gate opening travelled through the house before his voice did. Mother paused for a second at the kitchen counter, wiping her hands on the end of her saree. Uncle, who had been standing near the window, straightened instinctively, as if he had been caught doing something wrong — though nothing had happened.

“Bhabhi,” Taau said when he stepped inside, his voice steady, respectful. “Kaise ho?”

“I am fine,” she replied with a polite smile. “Aap achanak aa gaye.”

“Bas… socha mil loon, kuch kaam tha pass mei” he said, placing his bag down.

Nothing in the exchange was improper. Nothing at all.

And yet, something shifted.

Taau’s Inner State

From the moment he entered, Taau noticed everything — not in pieces, but as a whole. The house felt different.

Mother moved with ease, not the stiff carefulness he had expected. She spoke comfortably, her tone settled, her presence calm. There was no visible tension in her, no trace of the distress he had imagined would linger.
And that disturbed him.

Yeh itni shaant kaise ho sakti hai?
Itna sab kuch hone ke baad…

His eyes moved, without intention, to Uncle.

Uncle was quieter than usual, attentive in a way that was hard to describe. Not hovering. Not intrusive. Just… present. As if he belonged there now.

That realisation struck Taau sharply.

Yeh jagah… ab iski hai.

The thought came uninvited, and he did not like it.

Taau had lived his life carefully.

Rules. Structure. Responsibility.

He had a wife, children, a defined role. Society had never questioned him.

And yet—
Here was his younger brother, the one everyone pitied, the one who “lost out”, now sitting in quiet companionship, sharing space with a woman who carried herself with dignity and control.
No drama. No collapse.
Just… adjustment.

Taau felt something tighten in his chest.
Not desire. Not anger. Something colder.
Sab kuch theek tareeke se karne ka kya fayda hua?
Zindagi phir bhi ulta hi khel khelti hai.

Mother was extra cautious now She adjusted her pallu, sat straighter, became more careful around him.

Uncle noticed too. And for the first time, he felt a flicker of insecurity — not because of Mother, but because someone was watching. A Authority elderly figure.

That Night – Taau’s inner feelings

Taau lay on his bed, the faint moonlight falling across the ceiling, tracing the familiar contours he had stared at countless nights before. But tonight, everything felt sharper, heavier. The house was still, yet every creak, every whisper of wind, seemed amplified, echoing the storm in his mind.

Itna sab kuch ho gaya… aur main yahan chup hoon?

He turned slightly, eyes following the shadows in the corner. Mother’s soft laugh from earlier replayed in his head, gentle and natural, full of warmth and life. Uncle had moved quietly beside her, attentive, careful — and the ease of it all, the closeness that should not have belonged to him, made something tighten in Taau’s chest.

It wasn’t just jealousy. Not just comparison. Part of him — a part he hated to acknowledge — felt a pull. Not lust in a crass sense, but an undeniable awareness of her presence, her movement, her calm confidence. The way she had bent slightly to reach a jar, the soft sway of her shoulders, the faint smile she had given Uncle — it all lodged somewhere uncomfortable in him.

Main ne toh sab kuch sahi kiya. Sab kuch theek kiya… phir bhi, yeh ajeeb kaisa lag raha hai?
He realized, reluctantly, that he was feeling what he had tried to suppress for years. Part admiration. Part longing. Part desire. It was quiet, restrained, unwilling to act, but real, threading through the rest of his emotions like a sharp undercurrent.

Yeh sachai nahi hai… par kuch toh hai jo main ignore nahi kar sakta.
Taau’s mind flickered to memories of family life, of moments he thought were sufficient, of roles he had dutifully played — husband, brother, son. And now, watching her move through the house, confident, playful, teasing in subtle ways, he felt a strange mixture: awe, longing, and a reluctant envy of Uncle.
Sab kuch sahi hai, sab kuch shishtachar mein hai… par phir bhi… mera dil yahan nahi hai. Kuch aur chah raha hai… jo main nahi chahna chahta.

He shifted under the blanket, hugging it closer, staring at the ceiling, thinking:
Shayad yehi zindagi ka sach hai. Kabhi kabhi, jo chahte nahi… wahi dil ke andar zinda reh jata hai.
Acceptance did not bring peace. Recognition did not erase the ache. Desire, even small and restrained, lingered uncomfortably, tangled with jealousy and regret. And yet, he could do nothing — only observe, feel, and wrestle silently with the pull of emotions he had no right to indulge.

He turned on his side, facing away from the window, from the house, from the scene he could not touch, and let the silence fold around him. But that quiet pull, that inner flicker of something forbidden yet real, would not leave him tonight.

Father Returns

The morning sunlight came softly through the kitchen window. Mother moved around with her usual ease, arranging cups for tea, stacking plates. Her butt in saree swayed naturally with every step. The pleats fell neatly at her waist, nothing flashy, yet she carried a quiet grace that made her presence noticeable.

Uncle stood near the counter, a little stiff. Father had returned from his trip that morning, and the house already felt different. “Aaj… kya karun main? Kaise behave karun, bahut ajeeb hai kyu aagaya yeh vapis”… His hands hovered over the cups, unsure whether to step closer to mom or stay distant. Every glance at Mother was careful, fleeting, full of admiration but restrained by nervousness.

Mother noticed his hesitation and smiled faintly, a little amused. She leaned slightly toward him while picking up the teapot, letting her movements catch his eye subtly. “Arre, dhyan se haan, varna gir jaoge phir,” she whispered softly, teasing, “itna mat daro biwi hun tumhari bhi” Her tone was playful, light, safe — yet Uncle felt his throat dry and heartbeat quicken.

From the doorway, Taau stood pretending to check the newspaper, but his eyes were glued to Mother. Every small movement — the way she bent slightly, the tilt of her head, the soft smile at Uncle — made his chest tighten. Yeh kaise ho sakta hai, kya yeh sach hai… kitni khoobsurat hai yeh, kitna pyara badan hai… He gripped the newspaper tighter, pretending to read, but his mind was racing.

Mother continued her chores, completely unaware of Taau. Uncle, meanwhile, tried to focus on helping her, but Father’s presence kept him on edge. Every movement of Mother’s — bending over the sugar jar, adjusting a cup, the gentle sway of her waist — made him hesitate slightly, careful not to overstep or look distracted.

Father came fully into the room then, stretching, and called out in his calm, cheerful voice, “Morning, sab log!” He looked around, noticing the morning routine, completely unaware of the subtle currents between them. Uncle straightened immediately, nervous and slightly guilty, while Mother greeted him with a polite, soft smile.

Taau stepped back a little, folding the newspaper, but his eyes kept watching Mother. The jealousy and fascination inside him grew silently.

My Perspective-
 
I was sitting quietly near the doorway, pretending to scroll through my phone, but I couldn’t focus. My eyes kept drifting toward the kitchen. Everything seemed ordinary at first — Mother moving around, her saree swaying lightly, Uncle hovering nearby, trying not to stare too obviously. Father was there too, talking casually, completely unaware of the currents flowing under the surface.
 
And then I saw Taau.
 
He stood to the side, newspaper in hand, pretending to read. But his eyes weren’t on the paper. They were on Mother. Just… watching her. Not a glance, not once or twice — but subtle, repeated, lingering just long enough that I noticed. His posture was careful, controlled, but I could feel it in the way his shoulders tensed every time Mother leaned over or bent slightly.
 
Arre… yeh kya ho raha hai? I thought, my stomach twisting. Meri maa… aur yeh… chupke se bas dekh ja rahe hai.
 
Part of me was shocked. Another part of me felt a strange ache of embarrassment, as if I had stumbled into a private corner of their world I wasn’t meant to see. There was curiosity in his eyes, yes, but also… something deeper. Something unspoken that made the air feel heavier than it should.
 
And then I noticed Uncle. His nervousness was almost painfully obvious. Every time Mother moved near him, he froze for a fraction of a second, glanced at Father quickly, then back at her. His breathing was slightly uneven. He looked like a man caught between wanting to be closer and knowing he shouldn’t.
 
My home is like a chessboard now, I thought, almost in disbelief. Everyone playing their own silent game — Mother teasing without realizing how much she’s stirring him, Uncle trying to control himself, Father completely blind, aur Taau… secretly observing… aur main bas… watching it all.
 
A strange tension coiled in my chest. Part of me wanted to look away, pretend I didn’t notice, but another part — a smaller, stubborn part — was fascinated. The way Mother moved, elegantly, sexy and yet aware enough to tease subtly. The way Uncle’s eyes flicked toward her, restrained, tense, wanting. And Taau, his own mix of admiration, curiosity, and… desire, hidden behind a mask of normalcy.
 
Yeh sab… it’s wrong. But it’s also impossible to ignore.
 
I shifted slightly, trying not to be seen. My mind raced with questions I didn’t want answers to. How long could this go on before someone noticed? Was Mother aware of  Taau’s eyes on her? Did she even realize how much power she had over the room without saying a word?
 
The morning sunlight felt warmer now, heavier somehow. Every small movement — a tilt of the head, the sway of a saree pleat exposing her tight blouse, the brushing of a hand against a cup — carried meaning, weight, unspoken stories. And I, hidden in the doorway, was witnessing it all.
 
Aur main… kya karun? Kya sochun? I asked myself, knowing that nothing I thought could change what was happening. But still, I couldn’t stop thinking. Every glance, every subtle shift, every quiet tension in the house felt like it was speaking directly to me — pulling me into a world I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of, yet couldn’t tear myself away from.
 
 

[Innocent_Pervert]

The Night


The room was dim, only a sliver of light from the hallway spilling across the bed. Mother lay in the middle, Dad on her left, Uncle on her right. She had been calm all day, but tonight she wanted to teach a quiet, unforgettable lesson to my father — deliberate, teasing, and emotionally intense.
 
She shifted slightly, letting her breast press lightly against Uncle’s chest. He stiffened, caught off guard, his heart beating faster. She let herself lean in just a little more, so their sides touched. Not carelessly, not accidentally — deliberately.
 
Uncle’s hand hovered, tense, wanting to respond, wanting to steady her, but he didn’t. He felt the warmth of her body, the gentle pressure of her leaning — and it made him acutely aware of every inch of closeness.
 
“Arre… kya kar rahi ho… thoda control rakho,” he thought, frozen yet aware, a flush rising to his cheeks.
 
Father stirred beside her. Even lying there, pretending to sleep, he could sense something — a warmth, a closeness between Mother and Uncle that made his chest tighten.
 
“Yeh kya kar rahi?  he thought, jealousy and surprise mixing in his mind.
 
Mother let her head rest lightly against Uncle’s shoulder, tilting just enough for her hair to brush against him. She whispered softly, low enough for him to hear: “Arre… lagta hai kisi ko sambhalna padega aaj.” Her voice was playful, teasing, controlled.
 
Uncle’s side brushed against hers as she shifted slightly to get more comfortable. The contact was minimal, innocent, but charged with tension. His pulse raced. Every tiny movement, every slight leaning or brushing of arms, carried meaning — subtle, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
 
Father’s eyes flickered open, seeing the closeness. He felt the weight of her control, the silent message she was sending: she could command attention, tease, and be fully aware of her effect, without crossing any line.
 
Mother stayed there for a long moment, leaning slightly, letting Uncle feel the warmth of her body, the gentle touch of her hair and shoulder. Uncle was tense, flustered, but restrained. Father’s heart thumped with jealousy and a slow understanding of the lesson being taught.
 
Finally, Mother adjusted, sitting up slightly, giving both men a subtle reminder: she was playful, teasing, and in full control of the night. Uncle’s chest still ached from the tension, Father’s mind churned with awareness, and Mother lay calm, victorious in her delicate, quiet game.
Next Morning
The first light of morning crept through the curtains, painting the room in soft golden hues. Mother stirred, eyes half-closed, and slowly shifted in bed. She stretched deliberately, letting her shoulder brush against Uncle’s side as she sat up. The touch lingered a moment longer than necessary.
 
Uncle’s chest tightened. He was already awake, pretending to read a book, but his eyes flicked up involuntarily. Her shoulder had pressed lightly against him, just enough to make him aware of her warmth, of the gentle curve of her body close to his.
 
“Arre… kya kar rahi ho… phir se,” he thought, heart racing.
 
Father, still on the other side of her, stirred and opened his eyes. He noticed the subtle closeness, the soft pressure, the way she had leaned just slightly into Uncle. His stomach twisted.
 
He stayed frozen, heart tight, trying to process the scene in front of him.
 
Mother yawned softly, then turned her head toward Uncle, letting a small smile curl on her lips. “Aaj subah ka kaam start karna padega, haan? Or are you planning to stay frozen all day?” she whispered, teasing, careful to sound light but deliberate.
 
Uncle’s fingers twitched, pretending to adjust the book in his hands. His side was still warm from where she had leaned. “Kya karun… main bas yahan… aur ye…,” he thought, cheeks flushed.
 
Mother swung her legs over the bed and stood up slowly, stretching just a little, letting the movement sway naturally, catching Uncle’s glance. He couldn’t help noticing — her hair falling forward, her breasts now free. Every motion seemed designed to make him aware of her presence without crossing any boundary.
 
Father sat up, rubbing his eyes. He tried to look away, tried to focus on the morning light through the window, but his mind refused to let him ignore the scene. “Arre… itni deliberately… aur main yahan…,” he thought, a mix of frustration, jealousy, and understanding tightening in his chest.
 
Mother moved toward the wardrobe to pick her clothes, humming softly. Uncle followed quietly, holding a towel for her. Their hands brushed — deliberate, lingering slightly — but still completely safe. Uncle’s pulse jumped; Father’s gaze sharpened.
The morning sunlight made her kurta glow gently. She didn’t rush, letting her movements be calm, measured, just enough for Uncle and Father to notice.
 
The moment she left the room, the air suddenly felt heavier. Uncle shifted on his chair, adjusting himself, trying not to appear tense, but his eyes kept flicking toward the door she had gone through.
 
Father cleared his throat, pretending to read a newspaper, but he could feel Uncle’s awkward energy. The silence stretched between them, broken only by small sounds — the rustle of the newspaper, the ticking of the clock, the faint noise from the kitchen where Mother had gone.
 
Uncle, for his part, couldn’t help but notice the subtle warmth she left behind — the scent of her perfume, the sway of her ass as she moved down the hallway..
 
Both men avoided eye contact, shifting in their seats, their thoughts tangled in jealousy, admiration, and unease. Uncle kept his hands folded on his lap, pretending to be busy. Father tried to focus on the paper, but the empty space beside him where Mother had been felt painfully alive.
 
A small sound from the bathroom — the tap turning on — made Uncle flinch slightly. Father’s jaw tightened. They both knew she was unaware of the effect her absence had created.
 
Father looked at him, a silent acknowledgment passing between them — awkward, tense, unspoken. Neither dared speak. Neither wanted to break the delicate, charged moment.
 
Minutes passed slowly. Uncle kept glancing at the door, waiting for a glimpse of her. Father kept adjusting his paper, pretending it mattered. The room felt smaller, heavier, every tick of the clock echoing the absence of her presence and the tension she left behind.
 
When Mother finally returned, fresh and calm, the air shifted immediately. Both men stiffened, trying to act casual, but the awkward tension had only deepened, a quiet reminder of her presence and the subtle control she had over the room.
 
Mother smiled softly at them, aware of the effect she had created, and whispered lightly, “Subah ki chai ready hai. Jaldi aao, warna thandi ho jaayegi. Taau bahar baithe hai”
 
Both men jumped slightly at the sound of her voice. Their silent, awkward morning ended in a tense, careful scramble toward the kitchen, the room still humming with the unspoken charge of the moment.

[Rocky]

Excellent one, please continue

[Erotica erotica]

uncle has every right over mom, uncle will satisfy mom and break both father and son,pls 
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[Innocent_Pervert]

The afternoon sun was pouring through the living room, casting warm streaks across the floor. Maa moved around easily, carrying a basket of laundry. Her saree clung gently to her hips, the pleats shifting just so, giving a small hint of her thighs. She bent to pick up a stray sock, and the top of her blouse pulled slightly, showing a delicate bit of skin at her waist and cleavage.


Papa was sitting on the sofa, pretending to read, but his eyes followed her every movement. The way her blouse stretched, the gentle curve of her waist under the fabric — he tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. He gripped the newspaper tightly, trying to focus, but every little motion from her made him swallow hard.

Chacha hovered nearby, handing over a towel for the folded clothes. Every time she bent or leaned, he could see the gentle arch of her back, the way the saree outlined her silhouette. She caught his glance and gave a small, knowing smirk. As she straightened up, her arm brushed his shoulder lightly, just enough to make him flinch.

Maa turned toward Taau, who was leaning against the wall, pretending to scroll on his phone. She leaned slightly on the sofa, stretching her arms overhead. The blouse lifted slightly, revealing the smooth curve of her waist. She tilted her head and looked at uncle.

“Arre… itna busy ho ke kuch notice hi nahi karte kya?” she said to uncle softly, teasing, letting the sunlight highlight the soft curve of her neck and her lips which was noticed by Taau.

Taau’s chest tightened. He quickly looked away, but the warmth creeping up his neck gave him away. She noticed. Oh yes, she knew exactly the effect she had on all three men.

Maa moved again to fold a sheet. As she bent, her hips shifted naturally, the pallu of the saree giving a small glimpse of her cleavage, Both Chacha and Papa noticed, while Chacha’s hands twitched as he tried to fold another piece of cloth, pretending not to notice, and Papa’s jaw tightened.

Then, with deliberate casualness, she brushed past all three of them one by one. Her hips touched Papa lightly, the saree just close enough to Chacha to make him stiffen, and her fingers lightly touched Taau’s shoulder as she straightened. She paused for a moment, letting all three men feel her presence fully, then smiled and walked toward the kitchen.

“Tea ready hai. Jaldi aao, warna thandi ho jaayegi,” she said lightly, glancing over her shoulder with a playful spark in her eyes, as if daring them to react.

The room fell silent after she left. But the air felt charged, heavy, electric. All three men were aware of her lingering fragrance, the sway of her hips, the teasing tilt of her head. Nobody said anything — yet each of them was caught in her invisible web of teasing, mesmerized, frustrated, and secretly thrilled.

Even from a distance, Maa’s playful dominance was obvious: she had all their attention, and she enjoyed every moment of it.
 
Griha Shanti Pooja, traditionally a ritual for household harmony

Mother had dressed carefully for the pooja , a soft pink saree with a delicate border, dbangd elegantly over her shoulder. Her blouse was slightly low-cut at the back, tied neatly, but she knew the dbang required careful attention.
Both fathers, her husband and her co-husband were present, seated on the floor, assisting with the ritual. She moved with grace, arranging the flowers and lighting the diyas, humming softly under her breath.

The pooja was at its peak, the aroma of incense filled the room, diyas flickered, and chants echoed softly. Mother, in her delicate pink saree, moved gracefully around the altar, arranging flowers. The men were kneeling close, trying to focus on the ritual, but she had already left them distracted.
 
As Mother reached forward to lift the silver kalash, the back of her blouse gave a loud rip, the string tearing completely. The blouse slid down almost entirely, leaving her bare from shoulder to waist, the saree dbang hanging loosely and unable to cover her in time.

Her breath caught for a second, but then she smiled wickedly, realizing the effect. “Arre, arre… kya ho gaya?” she murmured, loud enough for both men to hear. Her voice was playful, teasing, carrying that dangerous spark that made the air tense.

Father’s eyes widened involuntarily, and Uncle’s hands trembled slightly as he tried to fold petals without looking directly. Mother moved deliberately, bending to place a diya near the altar. Every motion made her bare back almost fully visible, the saree clinging only loosely around her hips.

“Dhyaan se, dono,” she said softly, glancing overher shoulder, letting them see exactly what she was daring them to notice. 

She leaned forward again to lift a garland, and this time, the saree slipped slightly from her hip, revealing more than ever. The full curve of her waist, the bare expanse of her back, teasingly exposed, yet she moved as if nothing had happened, every gesture amplifying the forbidden thrill.

“Arre, help karo ya bas dekhte raho?” she whispered, voice sultry and innocent at the same time. Her eyes sparkled, daring them to act, daring them to be caught staring.

Both men were frozen. The sacred fire burned in front of them, but their attention had shifted completely, hearts pounding, eyes fixed on her. Mother, noticing the effect, let the malfunction linger longer, casually adjusting the kalash, tilting her body, letting every curve and bare inch tease without fully revealing, making the ritual feel charged with silent, forbidden tension.

Even the final arti became an act of daring — Mother’s blouse had slipped too far to be fully hidden, the pallu slipping slightly from her shoulder, and yet she smiled, calm and in control, letting them feel how fully she had taken over their minds during a sacred moment.

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... Do you want me to continue??

[Erotica erotica]

yes of course,pls update brother. excited to see hoe uncle bangs mom,and son hears moaning sound helplessly. Do not forget to add pics and gif in sex scene. update