Who was that mystery guy?

The next afternoon the house had settled into that lazy, post-lunch hush. My husband mother was in the kitchen humming old film songs while chopping vegetables. He had left for the market with his cousins, laughing about some new sweet shop that had opened. I told everyone my head was still aching from yesterday and that I needed to rest in the guest room upstairs. No one suspected a thing.

My heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would bruise my ribs as I climbed the stairs. The ache between my legs from the last two days had turned into a constant, low throb — a reminder of how thoroughly he had used me. I hadn’t worn panties again. The light peach saree I chose was thin, almost translucent where the sun hit it, and I’d left the first three hooks of my blouse open so the deep valley between my full breasts was clearly visible. My nipples were already stiff, rubbing against the soft cotton with every step.

I pushed the storeroom door open, the old hinges creaking softly.

He was standing by the small window again, back to me, the afternoon light outlining his broad shoulders and the slight paunch that pressed against his off-white kurta. When he turned, the full daylight hit his face — the familiar deep-set eyes, the thick salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, the silver at his temples, the small scar on his left eyebrow that you once told me he got in a childhood fall. My father-in-law. Sasur-ji.

My stomach flipped. A rush of pure shame flooded me… and right behind it, a hot, shameful gush of wetness between my thighs.

He didn’t know I knew. His expression was calm, almost gentle, the same quiet smile he gave me every morning at breakfast when he asked if I had slept well.

“You came back,” he said, voice low and rough, exactly as before.

I stood there frozen for a second, lips parted, breath shallow. Then I stepped inside and closed the door behind me with a soft click. The dusty smell of old cardboard and mothballs wrapped around us.

He crossed the room slowly. One big, warm hand came up and cupped my cheek, thumb stroking my lower lip. “Still no words, beta? You can leave right now. I won’t stop you.”

I didn’t move. My eyes stayed locked on his. My chest rose and fell rapidly, breasts straining against the half-open blouse.

That was answer enough.

He exhaled — a deep, satisfied sound — and pulled me into him. His mouth claimed mine in a slow, deep kiss, tongue sliding against mine, tasting of the elaichi he’d chewed after lunch. His beard scratched my chin and cheeks deliciously. One large palm slid down my back, cupped my ass through the saree, and squeezed hard, pulling me flush against the thick ridge of his cock already straining in his pajama.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, sucking and biting softly at the sensitive skin just above my collarbone. I whimpered. My hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his kurta.

He turned me around without a word, pressing my front against the same rough wall. My palms flattened on the cool plaster. He stood behind me, chest to my back, his heavy erection nestled against the curve of my ass.

His hands were slow this time, deliberate. He tugged the pallu free, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap. Then he unhooked every single hook of my blouse, one by one, until it hung open. He peeled it off my shoulders, letting my heavy breasts spill out into his waiting palms. They were warm, rough from years of work, and he kneaded them slowly, thumbs circling my dark, stiff nipples before pinching them — hard enough to make me gasp and arch back against him.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against my ear. “These tits have been driving me crazy since the day you walked into our house as my son’s wife.”

He dropped to his knees behind me.

With both hands he gathered the layers of my saree and petticoat, bunching them high around my waist until I was completely bare from the hips down. Cool air kissed my soaked, swollen pussy. I was dripping — a thin string of arousal already stretching from my folds to the inside of my thigh.

He groaned at the sight. “Look at you… already leaking for your sasur-ji.” ( Sasur ji means Father in law in hindi)

Then his mouth was on me.

His tongue — broad, hot, experienced — licked a long, slow stripe from my clit all the way to my entrance. He did it again and again, savouring me, humming in pleasure at my taste. When he sucked my swollen clit into his mouth and flicked it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, my knees buckled. I moaned loudly, forehead pressed to the wall.

Two thick fingers pushed inside me — no resistance, I was so wet they slid in easily. He curled them, stroking that spongy spot inside me while his mouth worked my clit in firm, relentless circles. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping and his tongue slurping filled the small room. My juices coated his beard; I could hear him swallowing.

I came within minutes — hard, sudden, thighs clamping around his head as my pussy spasmed and gushed. A small squirt splashed against his chin. I bit my own forearm to muffle the cry, body shaking violently.

He didn’t stop. He licked me through it, gentler now, until the tremors eased, then stood up.

I heard the rustle of cloth. His pajama cord loosened. The heavy, thick length of his cock slapped against my ass — hot, veined, the head already slick with pre-cum. It was even bigger in the daylight: dark, heavily veined, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a fat, bulbous head. His balls hung heavy and full beneath.

He rubbed the head up and down my soaked slit, coating himself, bumping my clit with every pass until I was pushing back desperately, whining.

“Beg for it,” he growled softly. “Beg your sasur-ji to fuck you.”

My voice cracked. “Please… sasur-ji… fuck me.”

He groaned in satisfaction and pushed in.

The stretch was exquisite. Inch by thick inch he sank into me, my walls fluttering and gripping around his girth. When he bottomed out, his heavy balls pressed against my clit and the head kissed my cervix. I felt so full I could barely breathe.

He stayed buried deep for a long moment, letting me adjust, one hand reaching around to rub slow circles on my clit. Then he started to move — long, deep, powerful strokes. Each thrust dragged every ridge and vein along my inner walls. The wet slap of his hips meeting my ass echoed obscenely. His balls swung and smacked against my clit with every plunge.

He leaned over me, chest to my back, one arm wrapping around to maul my swinging breasts, pinching and tugging the nipples. His other hand stayed between my legs, rubbing my clit in time with his thrusts.

“You’re clenching so tight, beta,” he rasped against my ear. “Your little married pussy is sucking my cock like it was made for it. Does my son fuck you this deep? Does he make you squirt like this?”

I moaned helplessly, shaking my head. “No… never… only you…”

He sped up, fucking me harder, the pace turning brutal. The storeroom filled with the wet sounds of my pussy being pounded, my whimpers, his low grunts. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto my back.

I came again — harder this time — my walls rippling and milking him, a fresh gush of wetness soaking his balls and running down both our thighs.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, then suddenly pulled out, spun me around, and lifted me. My back hit the wall; my legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He lined up and slammed back in, fucking me upright, deep and fast. My breasts bounced wildly against his chest. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while he pounded me.

I came a third time — a silent, shaking orgasm that left me limp in his arms.

Only then did he let go. With a deep, guttural groan he buried himself to the root and came — thick, hot ropes of cum flooding my womb. Pulse after pulse, so much that it immediately started leaking out around his cock, dripping in heavy white strands down my thighs and onto the dusty floor.

He held me there, still buried deep, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together. His cock twitched inside me with the last spurts.

When he finally pulled out, a thick glob of his cum followed, splattering onto the floor between my feet. My pussy felt gaping, swollen, pulsing. My thighs were shiny and sticky.

He helped me down gently, then used the edge of his kurta to wipe between my legs — almost tenderly — before straightening my saree and hooking my blouse back up. He kissed my forehead, then my lips, soft and lingering.

“Tomorrow?” he asked, voice husky.

I looked up at him — my father-in-law, the man who had just filled me with more cum than my husband ever had — and nodded.

He smiled, that secret, satisfied smile, and slipped out first.

I waited until my legs stopped shaking, then followed, the warm wetness of his seed still trickling down my inner thighs with every step.

Downstairs, My mother in law called me to taste the sabzi.

I smiled, cheeks flushed, pussy still throbbing, and went to join them like the perfect, obedient bahu( means daughter in law) I was supposed to be.

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