I’m Sunita, a 45-year-old widow living in a sprawling Delhi house with my daughter, Neha, and her husband, Rohan. Neha’s 24, a delicate beauty with her father’s soft features, but I’ve kept my own allure—curvy hips, full breasts that still turn heads, and long, dark hair streaked with silver that I wear loose. Rohan, though, is the real catch—28, tall, with a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and a quiet intensity that sends shivers down my spine. He married Neha two years ago, but lately, I’ve noticed his eyes aren’t on her—they’re on me. And last night, he proved it, fucking me with a passion he never shows my daughter, turning our forbidden tension into a sweaty, delicious reality.
It started a month ago, subtle at first. I’d catch Rohan watching me as I moved around the house in my sarees, the silk clinging to my body in the humid air. He’d linger when I bent to pick something up, his gaze tracing the curve of my ass, or stare when my blouse slipped, revealing a hint of cleavage. Neha was oblivious, always busy with her phone or out with friends, leaving Rohan and me in a house that felt smaller every day. I tried to ignore it—told myself it was wrong, that he was my damad—but my body didn’t listen. The heat between my legs grew every time he brushed past me, his touch lingering too long.
Last night, it all unraveled. Neha was at a friend’s place, staying over, and the house was ours. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, my saree damp from the heat, the blouse sticking to my skin. Rohan walked in, shirtless, his jeans slung low, showing off the hard planes of his stomach. “Need help, Maa?” he asked, his voice low, the pet name dripping with something more. I turned, my breath catching as he stepped closer, his bare chest inches from me. “I’m fine, Rohan,” I said, but my voice trembled, betraying me. He smirked, that dangerous, knowing smirk that made my knees weak. “You don’t look fine,” he murmured, his hand brushing my arm, sending a jolt straight to my core.
I should’ve stopped him, pushed him away, but I didn’t. His fingers slid to my waist, pulling me against him, his hardness pressing into my stomach through his jeans. “Rohan, this is wrong,” I whispered, but my hands were already on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin. “Neha doesn’t need to know,” he growled, his lips grazing my ear. “I want you, Sunita—not her.” The confession ignited me, and before I could think, his mouth was on mine, fierce and hungry, his tongue claiming me with a force that left me dizzy.
He tasted of whiskey and rebellion, his stubble scraping my skin as he kissed me deeper, his hands roaming my body. He yanked my saree pallu down, letting it pool at my feet, exposing my blouse and the swell of my breasts. “Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he rasped, unhooking my blouse with rough fingers, tearing it open to reveal my bra. He didn’t bother with finesse—ripped the bra off, my heavy breasts spilling free, nipples hardening under his gaze. His mouth was on them instantly, sucking one hard, his teeth grazing the peak while his hand kneaded the other, rolling my nipple until I moaned, loud and unrestrained, my head tipping back.
“Rohan… we can’t,” I gasped, but it was a lie—I wanted him, needed him. He pulled back, stripping off his jeans, his cock springing free—thick, veined, pulsing with need. My eyes widened, my pussy aching at the sight. He grabbed my petticoat, tugging it down with my panties, leaving me naked except for the mangalsutra dangling between my breasts—a reminder of my widowhood, now a twisted symbol of this sin. “Look at you,” he muttered, his hands spreading my thighs, his fingers finding my wetness. “So fucking wet for me.” He slid two fingers inside, pumping fast, curling them until I was trembling, my moans filling the kitchen.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck me, Rohan,” I begged, my voice raw with desperation. He didn’t hesitate—lifted me onto the counter, spreading my legs wide, my ass on the edge as he stepped between them. His cock teased my entrance, rubbing against my swollen lips, driving me wild. “You want your damad’s cock, huh?” he taunted, his eyes locked on mine. “Yes… please,” I whimpered, and he thrust into me, hard and deep, filling me in one brutal stroke.
I cried out, the stretch intense, my pussy clenching around him as he started moving—deep, relentless thrusts that shook the counter beneath me. “You’re so tight, Sunita,” he groaned, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me into every slam of his cock. My breasts bounced wildly, my nipples raw from his earlier assault, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. “Harder… fuck me harder,” I moaned, my nails raking down his back, tearing at his skin. He growled, picking up the pace, his hips slamming into me with a force that rattled the dishes behind us, the sound of our bodies slapping together drowning out the night.
He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my neck to his lips as he sucked and bit, leaving marks I’d have to hide. “You’re better than her,” he rasped, his words a twisted thrill that pushed me closer to the edge. “She doesn’t fuck me like this.” His hand slid between us, finding my clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles until I was screaming, my body arching off the counter as pleasure ripped through me, my first orgasm hitting hard, my juices soaking him, dripping onto the floor.
But he wasn’t done. He pulled out, spinning me around, bending me over the counter, my breasts pressed against the cold granite. “Ass up,” he commanded, smacking my cheek hard, the sting making me moan. He spread me wide, entering me from behind, this angle even deeper, his cock hitting spots that made me see stars. “You like that, huh?” he grunted, fucking me like a beast, his hands gripping my hips so tight I’d bruise. “Yes… yes… don’t stop,” I sobbed, my face pressed into the counter, my body rocking with every thrust.
He reached around, pinching my nipples, twisting them until I whimpered, the mix of pain and pleasure driving me wild. “Come again for me,” he ordered, his fingers back on my clit, rubbing relentlessly as he pounded me. I did—harder this time, my pussy clenching so tight he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck, Sunita… I’m gonna cum,” he roared, and with one final, savage thrust, he exploded inside me, his hot release flooding me, spilling deep as he held me against him. My body shuddered, another orgasm tearing through me, my cries muffled against the counter as I milked him dry.
He collapsed over me, his chest heaving against my back, our sweat mingling on the granite. Slowly, he pulled out, his cum dripping down my thighs, pooling on the floor beneath us. He turned me to face him, kissing me softer now, his lips lingering on mine. “You’re fucking incredible,” he panted, his hands cupping my face. I smiled, still trembling, my body buzzing from the intensity. “So are you, Rohan,” I whispered, tasting him on my tongue.
We dressed in silence, the kitchen a mess—my saree crumpled, dishes scattered, the air thick with the scent of sex. He smirked as he adjusted his jeans. “Neha doesn’t need to know,” he said, and I nodded, my legs still shaky. As I smoothed my hair, my pussy still tingling from his cock, I knew this wasn’t the end—Rohan wanted me, not her, and I’d let him have me again, anytime he pleased.