My name’s Riya, a 20-year-old college girl from a small town in Uttar Pradesh, living with my parents and dreaming of the big city. I’m slim but curvy—long black hair, fair skin, perky breasts that fill my salwar suits, a tight ass that sways when I walk, and almond eyes that catch attention. My uncle, Sanjay—Mom’s older brother—is 45, a wealthy businessman in Delhi, tall and rugged with graying hair, a deep voice, and a commanding presence. He’d visit us sometimes, slipping me cash, his eyes lingering on my body longer than an uncle’s should. I felt it—his lust—but never imagined he’d call me to Delhi, fuck me senseless, and turn me into his rakhail, his Indian mistress.
It started on April 18, 2025, a humid afternoon. Uncle called, his voice smooth over the phone, “Riya, beta, come to Delhi. I’ve got a job for you—good pay, city life. Tell your parents it’s an internship.” My heart raced—Delhi, freedom, money. I convinced Mom and Dad, packed a bag, and took the overnight train. He met me at New Delhi station—sharp in a suit, his SUV gleaming, his eyes devouring my simple pink kurti and churidar, my breasts outlined, my ass hugged tight. “You’ve grown, Riya,” he said, smirking, hand brushing my back as he led me to the car. My pussy tingled—I knew this wasn’t just a job.
He drove me to his penthouse in South Delhi—glass walls, marble floors, a view of the city skyline. “This is yours too, if you play nice,” he said, pouring whiskey, offering me a glass. I sipped, nervous, the burn warming my throat. “Uncle, what’s the job?” I asked, sitting on his plush couch, legs crossed. He sat close—too close—thigh pressing mine, hand on my knee. “No job, Riya. I want you—your body, your pussy. Be my rakhail, and I’ll give you everything.” My breath hitched—my uncle, so bold, so Indian erotic in his demand.
I should’ve run, but his gaze, his power, pinned me. “Uncle, this is wrong,” I whispered, voice shaky, nipples hardening under my kurti. He grinned, “Call me Sanjay, and it’s only wrong if you don’t want it.” He leaned in, kissing me—hard, possessive, his tongue invading my mouth, tasting of whiskey and sin. I moaned, “Ohh, Sanjay,” kissing him back, my resistance crumbling, pussy soaking my panties. His hands moved—ripping my kurti open, buttons popping, exposing my white bra, my perky breasts straining.
“Fuck, Riya, these breasts are perfect,” he growled, Indian lust thick in his voice, tearing my bra off. My tits bounced free—perky, nipples stiff, begging for him. He sucked one, hard, biting it, while his hand squeezed the other—rough, claiming me. “Ahh, Sanjay, suck my breasts!” I cried, arching into him, my college-girl body yielding to his mature hunger. My churidar fell, panties yanked down—my naked pussy glowed, shaved and wet, my tight ass trembling. He stripped—suit off, his cock springing free, thick, 8 inches, veiny and hard. “Shit, Sanjay, your cock’s massive,” I gasped, my small-town innocence fading.
He pushed me onto the couch—legs spread, my pussy dripping, a niece’s offering to her uncle. “You’re mine now, Riya,” he growled, rubbing his cock against my pussy lips, teasing my clit. “Fuck me, Sanjay, make me your rakhail!” I begged, voice raw. He thrust in—deep, brutal, filling my tight pussy with one stroke. “Ahh, fuck, it’s so big!” I screamed, my walls stretching, burning with pleasure. He fucked me—hard, fast, the couch creaking, my perky breasts bouncing wildly. “Take it, my little slut,” he grunted, pounding me, my ass slapping his thighs. “Ohh, Sanjay, fuck my pussy, own me!” I moaned, nails digging into his back.
He flipped me—doggy-style, my tight ass up, an Indian mistress’s pose. “This ass—fuck, it’s begging for me,” he said, spanking me—hard, red welts on my fair cheeks. “Fuck my ass, Sanjay, make me yours!” I pleaded, lost in heat. He spat on my asshole—hot, slick—shoving his cock in, slow then savage. “Fuck, Riya, your ass is tight as hell!” he groaned, fucking me raw, my screams echoing— “Ahh, Uncle, rip my ass apart!” Pain melted into ecstasy, my ass gripping him, his hands grabbing my breasts, pinching my nipples.
The penthouse turned into a fuck den—Indian erotic chaos. He pulled me to the glass wall—me pressed against it, breasts flattened, city lights below as he fucked my pussy from behind. “Imagine Delhi watching you get fucked, rakhail,” he growled, slamming into me. “Yes, Sanjay, let them see!” I screamed, my pussy pulsing. He carried me to the bedroom—missionary, legs over his shoulders, his cock pounding my pussy deep— “You’re my mistress now, Riya,” he panted, my breasts jiggling. “Fuck me, Sanjay, I’m yours!” I cried, my body his to claim.
Hours blurred—fucking everywhere. Kitchen counter—me bent over, kurti shredded, pussy pounded; bathroom—shower sex, ass fucked under steaming water; balcony—me riding him, breasts bouncing, Delhi night air on my skin. “Fuck me, Sanjay, don’t stop!” I screamed, every thrust hardcore, every moan desperate. I came—shaking, pussy squirting— “Ohh, Sanjay, I’m cumming!”—he fucked me through it, relentless, then growled, “Where’s my cum, rakhail?” “Everywhere—my pussy, my ass, my tits!” I gasped. He erupted—cum flooding my pussy, then my ass cheeks, finally spraying my perky breasts, rubbing it in.
We collapsed, sweaty, my body marked—his mistress now. “Riya, you’re mine forever,” he whispered, kissing me. “Yes, Sanjay, I’m your rakhail,” I replied, pussy still throbbing. He gave me a flat, cash, clothes—kept me in Delhi. Parents think I’m working; I’m fucking—his cock in my pussy, my ass, my mouth, every day, my small-town life traded for his Indian erotic world.