Hey guys, I am Aayush, 18, and my bhabhi Neha has been my dirty obsession since I knew what a boner was. This happened in October 2024 in Delhi, where the nights were sticky, fans groaned, and streets buzzed with autos and chai stalls. My cousin Vikram, 30, was a cab driver, always out chasing fares till the sun came up, leaving Neha to boss the flat like some strict ma’am. She’s 24, 5’4″, fair and hot as hell, with medium boobs that were perky and tight under her kurtas. Her nipples would poke out when she was mad, and she had an ass so full and round it was like a damn peach. I’d been stroking myself raw thinking of her, and her “get a job, Aayush” nagging only fired me up more.
So, I hatched a plan. Vikram was on a night run from 8 PM to sunrise, and I showed up at their flat one evening, all chill, with a fake flyer I’d whipped up: “Work-from-home typing, 12k a month.” It was pure crap, but I knew she’d bite – she hated being broke while Vikram’s cash went to petrol. She opened the door in a tight yellow kurta, with a churidar hugging that ass and a dupatta half-off. Her hair was messy, and her eyes were sharp.
“What’s it now, Aayush?” she grumbled, leaning on the frame, her boobs pressing up, giving me a quick tease of cleavage.
“Got a job thing,” I said, flashing the flyer and slipping past her before she could block me. “Vikram says you’re bored – thought we could cash in together.”
It was a total lie – he never said anything like that – but her brows flicked, and she was hooked despite the scowl.
“You’re full of it,” she muttered, grabbing the flyer and eyeing the fake logo and email I’d slapped on. The flat was small, with a living room that had a saggy sofa, a wobbly table, and a kitchen nook that smelled of masala. The windows rattled from the street noise below.
“Sit,” I said, dropping onto the sofa, legs spread, testing her. She paused, her narrow mind yelling no, but she plopped into a chair, flyer in hand, lips pursed.
“12k’s decent,” I pushed, my voice smooth like butter. “You’re quick with your hands, right? We split it – easy money.”
Her guard was up – “Why are you doing this?” – but I saw it: money was her weak spot, and Vikram’s pay was peanuts.
Days went by, and she didn’t jump in, but she didn’t boot me either. I kept showing up, laptop under my arm, plonking it on her table, typing nonsense, and showing her “work.” She’d hover, wearing a kurta one day and a saree the next, her boobs swaying when she leaned to peek, and her ass brushing my elbow “by accident” as she passed.
“This feels off,” she’d mutter, but I’d grin and say, “Legit, Bhabhi, trust me,” and pat the chair next to me, close, our thighs grazing.
She’d tense up, shift away, all prim, but I’d catch her staring when I flexed, my shirt tight on my chest.
One night, Vikram was late, and the rain was smashing Delhi, lights flickering. I was there, laptop screen glowing, and she was in a blue saree, pallu slipping, showing her soft waist, and that ass popping under the pleats. ”
This job’s a scam,” she snapped, arms crossed, boobs up, nipples teasing through the blouse. “You’re wasting my time.”
“Relax, Bhabhi,” I said, standing up slow and easy, close enough to smell her – sweat and rose water. “You’re wound up – let me fix that.” I grabbed her shoulders, gentle, kneading, her body stiff, then easing a bit.
“What are you up to?” she hissed, stepping back, her narrow mind kicking in, but I held on, thumbs working, voice low.
“Helping you chill – Vikram’s never around, right?”
She froze, eyes darting, guilt flashing, but she didn’t pull free.
“Stop,” she mumbled, weak, her pallu sliding more, blouse tight, boobs heaving. I slid my hands down, slow, to her arms, then her waist, soft and warm, pulling her in.
“Aayush, no,” she whispered, pushing light, her wall cracking, but I pressed closer, feeling those boobs, my dick stiffening in my shorts.
“You deserve this,” I murmured, lips brushing her ear, hot breath, her shiver real.
She shook her head – “It’s wrong” – but her hands gripped my arms, not hard enough to mean it. I tugged her pallu, slow, letting it drop, her blouse clinging, nipples hard now.
“Fuck, Bhabhi,” I groaned, hands cupping her boobs, soft, then firm, squeezing, thumbs circling, her gasp low, eyes shutting.
“Vikram will know,” she breathed, but she leaned into me, her narrow mind fading.
I guided her to the sofa, slow and smooth, her ass sinking in, legs parting just a crack.
“He won’t,” I said, kneeling, hands on her thighs, hiking her saree up, churidar tight, outlining that peach ass. She squirmed – “Aayush, stop” – but her voice broke, weaker each time. I peeled the churidar down, inch by inch, her bare ass spilling out, no panties, round, plump, glistening. My dick throbbed, shorts off fast, rubbing her thigh, teasing slow.
“Don’t,” she mumbled, last fight, but her legs spread wider, breath hitching.
I climbed over, kissing her neck, then lips, soft, then deep. She resisted a bit, then kissed back, moaning, guilt lost in heat. I yanked her blouse up. Her boobs were free. As mentioned earlier, they are medium in size and firm. I sucked one nipple and swirled my tongue around it. Then I grazed my teeth on one while pinching the other. Then I rolled it while her back was arching.
“Ohh fuck,” she muttered with the hands in my hair.
“See? You want it,” I grinned, sliding my cock which was thick and pulsing into her pussy. She was dripping wet at that point. Her narrow mind was gone.
“No… yes,” she panted, confused, pulling me, her hands on my ass, urging me in. I thrust, slow and deep. Her pussy was tight and sucking me in. Her ass was cushioning my hips with soft slaps as I moved.
She moaned – “Aayush, ohh” – while her legs were wrapping me and her nails digging into my back. The sofa kept creaking under us.
I flipped her in the doggy position with her ass up high. Her hands were clawing at the armrest. My cock slammed into her with my balls smacking her and her ass jiggling. Her ass was red from light spanks.
“Harder,” she gasped as her walls shattered and her pussy gushed, soaking my thighs.
I grabbed her boobs which were hanging free, swaying. I squeezed and pinched them.
Her cries were loud – “Yes, fuck, Aayush!” Simultaneously, the rain was drowning it out.
Then we went to the missionary position. We were face-to-face. Her legs hooked my waist, pulling me deep. My cock was grinding her clit – first slow, then fast. Her pussy was pulsing, squeezing me. Her lips were on mine and her tongue went wild while biting my lip.
“Cum, Bhabhi,” I growled, thrusting deep inside her. My balls became tight, and her eyes began to roll.
“Inside, now,” her orgasm hit.
Her thighs were shaking, and pussy was milking me. Hot spurts were flooding her as I unloaded while grunting. Her moans faded to whimpers. We collapsed, both of us sweaty and panting. Her saree was a mess, blouse was bunched, my shorts were lost and the rain slowed outside.
“This can’t happen again,” she whispered with her narrow mind creeping back, but her fingers traced my chest, ass still warm from my hands.
I smirked – “Sure, Bhabhi” – knowing I’d cracked her good.
The next morning, Vikram rolled in, grumbling about traffic. Neha cooked parathas, prim as hell, avoiding my stare. He ate, clueless, while I sipped chai. Her dupatta grazed my knee under the table but I’m sure it wasn’t an accident. She’d fight it next time, but I’d win – slow and sweet. She was mine now.