Mother in Law Indian Hot Sexy story – My name is Sunita, a 45-year-old widow from a quiet suburb in Pune. I’m still a catch—long salt-and-pepper hair, dusky skin kissed by years, big heavy breasts that sag just right in my sarees, a thick waist, and a plump, round ass that jiggles when I walk. My husband passed five years ago, leaving me to raise my daughter, Priya, alone. She’s 24 now, married to Vikram, a 28-year-old software engineer from Mumbai—tall, broad-shouldered, with a chiseled face and eyes that burn through you. I’d felt old, worn out, my body craving touch, until Vikram, my damad, fucked my ass one night and turned me young again with his Indian erotic magic.
It happened on April 16, 2025, a sultry evening after a family puja at home. Priya had gone to her friend’s for a late-night kitty party, leaving Vikram and me alone. The house smelled of incense, marigold garlands wilting on the altar. I wore a maroon saree—silk, clinging to my curves, my blouse low-cut, showing cleavage deepened by age. Vikram lounged in a kurta-pajama, the fabric tight over his chest, his bulge hinting at what lay beneath. “Sasuma, you look tired,” he said, voice smooth as ghee, watching me sweep the floor, my ass swaying. “Age catches up, beta,” I sighed, brushing sweat from my brow.
He stood, stepping close—too close—his cologne mixing with the puja smoke. “You’re still beautiful, Sunita ji,” he murmured, dropping the formal ‘Sasuma,’ his hand grazing my arm. My breath caught—his touch sparked a fire I’d buried since my husband. “Vikram, don’t say such things,” I whispered, but my pussy tingled, my nipples hardening under the blouse. He smirked, “Why not? I see how you move, that ass—fuck, it’s begging for attention.” My eyes widened—my damad, so bold, so Indian erotic in his hunger.
The house was silent, save for the ceiling fan’s hum. “Come sit,” he said, guiding me to the couch, his hand on my lower back, brushing my ass. I obeyed, heart racing as he sat beside me, thigh pressing mine. “You deserve to feel young again,” he whispered, leaning in, his lips brushing my ear. I shivered, “Vikram, this is wrong,” but my body screamed yes. He kissed me—slow, deep, an Indian lover’s kiss, his tongue tracing mine like a Bollywood scene gone wild. I moaned, “Ohh, beta,” melting into him, my big breasts crushing his chest.
His hands moved—unpinning my saree pallu, letting it slide to reveal my blouse, damp with sweat, my breasts heaving. “Fuck, Sasuma, these tits are massive,” he growled, Indian-style lust in his voice, ripping the blouse open. My black bra strained—big, heavy breasts spilling as he yanked it down, nipples dark and thick from years of longing. He sucked one, hard, biting it, while his hand kneaded the other—rough, possessive. “Ahh, Vikram, suck my breasts, make me feel alive!” I cried, arching into him, my mature woman’s body awakening.
The saree fell, petticoat untied—my nakedness glowed in the dim light, pussy hairy and wet, ass plump and trembling. He shed his kurta, pajama dropping—his cock sprang free, long, thick, 8 inches of Indian manhood, veins pulsing. “Shit, Vikram, your cock’s a monster,” I gasped, my widow’s hands itching to touch. He grinned, “For you, Sunita ji, I’ll fuck you back to youth.” I knelt, Indian erotic style—sucking him like a devotee at a temple, lips stretching, tongue swirling. “Fuck, Sasuma, you’re a pro,” he groaned, thrusting into my mouth, my gag a symphony of lust.
He pulled me up, pushing me onto the dining table—wood cool against my back, legs dangling. “Spread for me,” he ordered, voice thick with desire. I did, my pussy dripping, ass quivering—an offering to my damad. He rubbed his cock against my pussy lips—teasing, Indian-style foreplay—then slammed in, filling me deep. “Ahh, fuck, Vikram, it’s huge!” I screamed, my tight, neglected pussy stretching, burning with pleasure. He fucked me—hard, fast, the table rattling, my big breasts bouncing like ripe mangoes. “Take it, Sasuma, feel young again!” he grunted, pounding me, my ass slapping the wood. “Ohh, beta, fuck my pussy, revive me!” I moaned, nails clawing his arms.
He flipped me—doggy-style over the table, my ass high, plump and ready. “This ass, fuck, it’s mine,” he growled, spanking me—hard, red welts blooming on my cheeks, an Indian husband’s claim reborn in him. “Fuck my gaand, Vikram, make me yours!” I begged, voice raw. He spat on my asshole—hot, wet—easing his cock in, slow then brutal. “Fuck, Sunita ji, your ass is tight!” he groaned, fucking me raw, my screams echoing— “Ahh, damad, rip my gaand apart!” Pain turned to ecstasy, my ass gripping him, his hands squeezing my big breasts, pinching my nipples.
The night turned wild—–Indian erotic chaos. He pulled me to the floor—missionary, legs over his shoulders, my pussy pounded deep, slow then savage. “You’re my slut now, Sasuma,” he panted, my breasts jiggling, my ass shaking. “Yes, Vikram, fuck me like a young randi!” I screamed, my pussy pulsing. He switched—pussy to ass, ass to pussy—fucking me like a Kamasutra god, my body his temple. Hours blurred—kitchen counter, me bent over, saree hiked, ass fucked; bedroom, riding him cowgirl, breasts bouncing— “Fuck me, beta, don’t stop!” I cried.
I came—shaking, pussy squirting, “Ohh, Vikram, I’m alive!”—as he fucked me through it, relentless. “Where’s my cum, Sunita ji?” he rasped. “My gaand, my pussy, my tits!” I gasped. He erupted—cum flooding my ass, then my pussy, finally spraying my big breasts, rubbing it in, Indian-style possession. We collapsed, sweaty, my body young again, his cum dripping off me.
Priya returned, clueless, but Vikram and I steal fucks—quick gaand maaris in the bathroom, pussy pounding in the car—my widow’s youth reborn by my damad’s cock. “You’re my jawani, Vikram,” I whisper after every fuck. “And you’re my fire, Sasuma,” he replies, our Indian erotic secret blazing.