The lateness of the hour had ceased to be a measurement of time; it had become a palpable pressure in the room, a velvet density that pressed upon my skin and pooled, hot and insistent, between my thighs. Every second was a tiny, exquisite agony. My pussy was no longer just a part of me; it was a separate, throbbing consciousness, a silent, weeping mouth that craved only one thing: Babuji’s cock. The emptiness inside me was a hollow of such acute wanting it felt like a physical wound. I was dying to be filled, to be pierced, to be fucked into something whole.
The words tore from me, ragged and stripped of all pretense. “Babuji! Your cock is wet now. Please don’t delay and put it inside me quickly.”
He heard the raw need in my voice, the tremor that was not of fear but of desperation. His eyes, dark and knowing, softened with understanding. His daughter-in-law was ready. Not just willing, but unraveling.
“Sushma,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my own chest. “Do this—place your hands on the edge of the bed and get on all fours like a mare, and I’ll insert my cock into your pussy from behind.”
A tremor of pure, animal submission ran through me. Today, I was ready to be taken in any position. The geometry of it mattered little; the only necessary truth was the cock going inside. Yet, as I moved to obey, his hands halted me, not with force, but with a different intention. They cupped my naked breasts, his palms warm and rough against my softness. He bowed his head and took a nipple into his mouth.
A gasp, part surprise, part frustration, escaped me. “Why do you start to suck now,” I whispered, “when you have just told me to get on my hands and knees?”
He released my breast with a soft, wet sound, his breath hot on my damp skin. “Sushma,” he murmured, his lips brushing my aureole. “It is like this—your pussy is still a small, tight flower for my cock. Mine is very thick; it will require… effort to enter. If I taste your breasts, my cock will harden of its own will, like iron drawn to a magnet. It will slide in more easily. And you…” He licked a slow, deliberate path to my other nipple. “Your pussy will weep for it. This way, the goodness you feel will be complete.”
I understood then. This was not a delay, but a dilation of the moment. Babuji wished to fuck me while worshipping my breasts, to make our nakedness a total landscape of sensation. Now, both of us—father-in-law and daughter-in-law—were stripped bare, not just of clothing, but of the final, fragile veils of decorum. The air itself felt different against my skin, like a cool liquid.
Babuji smiled, a slow curving of his lips that held centuries of masculine knowledge. A wave of such profound shyness crashed over me that I felt my very bones might melt. I could not hold his gaze. My eyes fell, my face burning as if touched by a desert sun.
He did not chastise me. Instead, with a tenderness that unstitched me further, he placed a single, calloused finger beneath my chin. He lifted my face, forcing my eyes to meet his. In that dark mirror, I saw my own desire reflected back—a wild, frightened, glorious thing.
Even though I was the one dying to be fucked, now that the tangible moment of it was upon us, a strange virginal timidity possessed me. I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in the private dark.
“Sushma,” his voice was a loving caress. “Why do you hide from me? Look at me properly.”
I forced my eyelids open. He was still smiling, but his eyes held no mockery, only a deep, engulfing warmth. The shyness became a torrent. With a small, desperate sound, I leaned forward, pressing my face into the bare, warm expanse of his chest. The scent of him—sandalwood soap, male sweat, the sun—filled my senses. My hand, of its own volition, found the hard, hot length of his cock. I wrapped my fingers around it, stroking the velvety-steel skin, feeling the powerful throb of his pulse against my palm.
“Babuji,” I moaned into his skin, my voice muffled. “I was feeling a strange… a strange turning inside. Please, do not torment me with this waiting. Put it inside me, quickly.”
He answered with his hands. One palm settled on my naked breast, kneading the soft flesh with a firm, possessive rhythm. Then he pushed me back, just enough to look. His gaze was a physical weight upon my breasts. I was shy, unbearably so, but what defense did I have? My body was an open book, and he was reading every syllable.
He gazed for a long, silent moment, a connoisseur before a masterpiece. Then both his hands came up, palms curving to scoop the fullness of my breasts, filling his fists with my yielding flesh. He began to knead them, slowly at first, a rhythmic pressure that was almost soothing. Then harder. His grip tightened, shaping me, claiming me. Sounds began to leak from my mouth, involuntary little cries that were the lexicon of this new world: “Si si… aah… aah… ouch… ma… ouch ouch… uffhh… mar gayi, it hurts, I am dying…”
“Si si aah aah ouch ma ouch ouch uff Babuji,” I screamed, my back arching, “do it gently! It hurts so much!”
In response, his fingers found my pink nipples, now hard and aching. He pinched them, not cruelly, but with a definitive authority, and began to rub them between his thumb and forefinger, a hard, twisting friction. The pain was a bright, sharp thread, but it was woven through with a darker, coarser thread of pleasure. I screamed, yes, from the hurt of it, but also from the shocking, maze-like sensation it created—a labyrinth within my pelvis where pain and pleasure lost their borders. After this relentless kneading, he bent his head.
His mouth, hot and wet, closed over my breast. Not just a kiss, but a claiming. He clamped my nipple between his teeth, a careful, precise pressure. Then he began to pull, to suckle, drawing not just the nipple but as much of the soft orb as he could into the cavern of his mouth. The sensation was indescribable—a pulling deep into my core, a primal connection that seemed to siphon the very essence from my body and feed it back as liquid fire. When a man sucks breasts like this, it is not just a touch; it is a transfusion.
He moved from one breast to the other, a dedicated devotee at twin altars. My hand had found its way to his head, my fingers tangling in the thick, greying hair. I pulled him closer, guiding his mouth, my own head thrashing on the pillow. He sucked as if my breasts were not flesh, but some sweet, overripe mango, bursting with a juice only he could taste. Now he was squeezing both breasts, pressing them together, alternating his mouth between them, his teeth grazing, pulling, his tongue laving the tender peaks.
All I could do was moan, a long, sustained “Aaahhh…” that came from the very pit of my belly. My hands moved through his hair in a frantic, loving rhythm, sometimes pressing his face harder against me, wanting more, deeper. Babuji was unleashing a passion of lips and tongue upon me, a sustained assault that caused my pussy to weep its endless, slick water, preparing the path for him. As he sucked, he shifted us, laying me back upon the crumpled sheet, his body coming down beside me, his mouth never breaking its sacred, suckling work.
By then, the horniness was a creature living inside me, coiling and uncoiling, squeezing my insides. I felt that if Babuji continued just a little longer, if he played my breasts like this for another moment, I would lose the final vestige of my control. I would grab his cock and guide it into my weeping pussy myself, I would beg, I would implore, I would become nothing but a vessel of demand. To ground myself, I spread my arms wide, gripping the sheet in both fists, the cotton biting into my palms.
But control was a distant memory. The proof was in the involuntary undulation of my hips, my ass lifting and falling on the bed in a slow, desperate rhythm of its own. When Babuji would lift his mouth, glistening, from my breast to capture my lips, my breathing would become frantic, ragged. I would hold him tight, my arms locking around his neck, and whisper against his mouth, my voice thick with a sensuality I did not recognize, “Babuji… what are you doing to me? Please… stop now.”
Yet even as I said it, my body writhed like a fish pulled from water, thrashing upon the bed. I spread my arms again, clenched the sheets, and screamed, the sound torn from deep within, “Aaaahhh jiiii… what is this? It tickles… aaaahhh… slowly… stop na Babuji jiiii… stop na… please stop… aaaahhhh!”
But Babuji was not going to stop. He was a force now, a tide I had invited. And I, in my writhing, in my contradictory pleas, was cooperating, encouraging his passion. He climbed fully atop me, his weight a delicious anchor. He put his mouth on mine, a deep, probing kiss that tasted of my own skin, while his hands never ceased their work on my breasts. He continued like this, a man possessed, and I was the altar, the scripture, and the prayer.
The weight of him settled upon me, a delicious, anchoring gravity. Babuji. His mouth found mine, not as a question but as a declaration, a silencing of every world outside this one. My lips parted beneath his, and the taste of him—of warmth and faint salt and something deeply, essentially male—flooded my senses. His hands, those strong, knowing hands, closed over my breasts, his palms hot against my skin. He did not simply touch; he claimed, his fingers learning the soft, yielding shape of me, his thumbs circling the already-tight peaks until a sharp, sweet ache radiated from my core.
He broke the kiss, his breath a ragged symphony in my ear, and descended. His mouth, that masterful mouth, closed over one breast, and the sensation was not a simple suckling. It was a drawing out, a pull that originated in the very pit of my belly. He lavished attention upon each breast in turn, his tongue swirling, his lips applying a pressure that was both relentless and reverent. A low, rhythmic sound began in my throat, unbidden, a primitive chant. Si aah… aah… ouch, Ma… ouch… It was a sound of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain, a surrender to a force greater than my own will.
A coil, tight and white-hot, was twisting deep within me, a spring wound beyond its limit. My hips lifted from the bed of their own volition, seeking a friction that was not there. A wave of pure, animal need crashed over me, stripping away the last vestiges of articulate thought. My hands fluttered to his hair, then his shoulders, clutching at the solid reality of him.
“Babuji,” I gasped, the word torn from a place of sheer desperation. “Something is happening to me… please, you must… do something.”
He lifted his head from my breast, his eyes dark pools of reflected fire. A smile played on his kiss-swollen lips, a tender, maddening smile. “What should I do, my Sushma?” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “I am ready. You must tell me. Give me your command.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, a shame that was itself a kind of arousal. I turned my face into the pillow, the linen cool against my burning skin. “I am shy… please, you do it.”
His laughter was a soft rumble against my chest. “Until you say it openly, how can I know the desire of your heart? You will not find your pleasure wrapped in this shyness, my flower. Give voice to your fire. Let me hear it.”
The command, wrapped in such gentle coaxing, undid me. The coil within snapped. All inhibition burned away in the inferno of my need. I turned back to him, my eyes meeting his, and the words spilled forth, raw and wet and true.
“Babuji, I cannot bear it another moment. Quickly… insert this weapon into my pussy. Thrust it deep inside me. Fuck me.”
He went very still, the smile widening, becoming something triumphant, something deeply possessive. He bent his head, bringing his ear close to my lips. “Sushma? What was that you said? Say it more openly for me. I did not quite hear.”
He was teasing me, stoking the blaze, and I was nothing but kindling. I arched beneath him, my nails scoring his back. My voice was no longer my own; it was the voice of the fire itself, low, guttural, stripped of all pretense.
“Fuck me, Babuji! Shove it in! Put your cock in my cunt and fuck your Sushma’s pussy! Fuck your bahurani lovingly… do not hurt me… my dear Babuji, I love you, I love you…”
I did not recognize the woman who spoke. The fire of lust had incinerated Sushma, the shy daughter-in-law, and left in her place this frantic, pleading creature. My mind was a blank, white screen, my body a map of pure sensation. My hand, acting on its own primal intelligence, dove between us and found him.
Oh, God.
My fingers closed around the thick, rigid heat of him. Babuji’s cock. It was a revelation. A royal scepter, velvet-over-steel, pulsing with a life of its own. It was donkey-thick, lion-proud, a beast of glorious, terrifying power. A moan was wrenched from my throat as I felt its weight, its staggering potential. My other hand flew to my own drenched core, my fingers slipping through the slickness there, the evidence of my madness. I was releasing water like a spring, and I circled the swollen nub, the touch sending jolts of lightning up my spine.
My gaze was fixed, hypnotized, on that majestic cock. It was the sun around which my universe now revolved. Before my eyes, I could see only Babuji—Babuji, with his strong, muscular body, his shoulders that could carry worlds, his broad chest matted with thick, dark hair. And the center of it all, the source of this roaring hunger: that magnificent cock, standing proud between his legs, a lion awaiting its feast. My pussy had gone mad for it. Truly, it was a royal cock, and now, in this shadowed room, my name was written upon it in the ink of desire.
Today, Babuji would quench the terrible fire in my pussy by burying this royal cock deep within my trembling flesh. The ache was a living thing, a second heart beating between my legs, demanding appeasement.
A kaleidoscope of images flashed behind my closed eyelids—how would he take me? In what position would this king mount his throne? And how completely would I offer myself, how would I rise to meet each thrust? I had prepared for him. I had specially cleaned my pussy, shaving away the silky hairs so the field was bare, a smooth, clean pitch perfectly prepared for Babuji to bat upon. In just a few moments, Babuji, like a diligent, ravishing bee, would suck the nectar of my youth and turn me from a trembling bud into a blossomed flower. Just as my soul was restless to unite with him, my body was frantic for its cock-king. Since morning, a faint, persistent tingling had laid out the red carpet for him, a secret anticipation thrumming in my blood.
Babuji’s gaze pulled me back. He had been watching my face, reading the silent symphony of my longing. He placed a hand beneath my chin, his touch impossibly gentle, and lifted my face until my eyes met his. I looked at him then—shyly, fearfully, a deer caught in the gaze of a gentle hunter.
“Sushma,” he breathed, his voice thick with wonder. “Today, without your clothes, you look exactly like a heavenly apsara. A nymph descended to drive me to bliss.”
He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb. “What is the need for shyness between us two, my daughter? I love you a great deal. If you love me too, look into my eyes and say it.”
His words were a key, turning in the lock of my heart. I swam in the deep, dark pools of his eyes, and found not judgment, but a shared, devouring hunger. The last veil fell.
“Babuji, I am shy,” I whispered, the confession a truth that no longer constrained me. “But Babuji… I love you.”
Having flung the words into the space between us, a sudden wave of that same shyness overwhelmed me. I buried my flaming face in the solid warmth of his chest, in the forest of his hair. With a sound of profound satisfaction, he enveloped me in his arms, crushing me against him. It was a world apart, that sanctuary against his chest—the smell of his skin, the thunder of his heart, the absolute safety within his strength. He held me there for an eternity, his large hands stroking my back, my hair, soothing and inflaming me all at once.
Then, he took my face in his hands again, a sculptor with his most cherished clay. Our lips were so close I could feel the magnetic pull of them. His hot breaths fell upon my mouth, each one a promise. He moved in, and in a final, reflexive gesture of that dying shyness, I turned my face away.
He did not relent. He moved again, his intention an unstoppable force. This time, I could not stop him. I did not want to. His lips found mine, and he locked me in a kiss that was both seal and commencement.
He captured my upper lip between his, a tender possession, and began to suck. The sensation was exquisite, a drawing out of my very essence. I began to cooperate, my lips learning the rhythm of his, sucking his full lower lip in return. He suckled at my mouth as he had at my breast, with a focused, devotional intensity, until my lips felt swollen, rosy and bee-stung without the aid of any paint. But he was not finished. He wanted to squeeze every drop of juice from them. He took my lips again, and our noses brushed, and then his tongue entered the fray.
It was a duel of velvet. His tongue battled mine, a sweet, wet wrestling. Then he pressed, capturing my tongue against his own lips, and began to suck on that as well. My breathing, already ragged, became a series of sharp, desperate gasps. The way he was consuming my mouth—with such playful skill, such devastating focus—I knew with a certainty that shook me to my marrow: tonight, he would suck every part of my body like this. He would drink me dry.
My time had come. The bee was at the blossom. And as he sucked the very juice from my lips, a pleasure so immense washed through me that I threw both arms around his neck, binding him to me. Our lips were badly, beautifully stuck together, fused in this wet, sucking communion. His hard hands roamed my back, learning its contours, pulling me ever closer, as he drank and drank from the well of my surrendered mouth.
Babuji was sucking the juice from my lips. Not kissing—sucking. A deliberate, artful extraction that felt less like an act of passion and more like a sacred, horticultural rite. His mouth was a tender, persistent vacuum against mine, drawing the very essence from the soft bud of my flesh. He worked with a fun and a skill that was astonishing, like a fat, golden bee utterly devoted to a single blossom, knowing its contours, its hidden reservoirs of sweetness. The pleasure of it was not sharp, but diffuse, a warm syrup spreading from the point of contact down the delicate column of my throat, pooling low in my belly. A soft, helpless sound escaped me, and I wound both arms around the strong pillar of his neck, anchoring myself to this singular sensation. Our lips were stuck together badly, sealed in a damp, perfect adhesion from which I had no wish to be freed.
He was sucking my lips badly, a rhythmic, gentle pull that seemed to siphon my very thoughts away, leaving only raw sensation. And while his mouth performed this liquid alchemy, his hands—those hard, knowing hands that had tilled soil and lifted burdens—were mapping the landscape of my back. They moved over the thin fabric of my sari blouse with a possessiveness that was neither rough nor hesitant, a caress that spoke of long-held knowledge and newfound claim. It was a duality that unspooled me: the soft, sucking mouth and the hard, roving hands.
Today, I was feeling a new sensation. A tickling that was not on the skin, but beneath it. A shimmering, electric current that danced along my nerves, a thousand tiny wings beating just under the surface of my self. My dear Babuji, sensing this inner commotion, deepened his exploration. His tongue, a slick, bold emissary, pressed past the seam of my lips and entered the private chamber of my mouth. The collision was a shock of wet warmth. Our tongues met, a shy, slippery greeting, and then he pressed mine down, capturing it gently against the firm line of his own lips, and began to suck. The intimacy of it was profound, obscene, exquisite. He was drinking me from the inside out.
Here, in this shadowed room fragrant with dust and old wood, only the sounds of our communion echoed. The wet, soft music of mouths joined, the faint sigh of my breath, the rustle of his kurta as he moved against me. My and Babuji’s lips were stuck to each other as if glued with Fevicol, that tenacious adhesive of the everyday, now binding us in an utterly extraordinary pact. He was sucking my lips badly, and I was writhing in his arms, a slow, undulating dance against the solid heat of him. I was going mad with a pleasure so thick and slow it felt like drowning in honey.
Now, I couldn’t bear it anymore. The tension was a coiled serpent in my core, its restless head seeking release. My hand, acting on an instinct older than shame, slipped between our pressed bodies and found the solid, straining truth of him through his dhoti. I fumbled, my fingers trembling, and then I held him. Babuji’s cock was very hot. Even through the linen, it burned with a vital, animal heat, a live thing pulsing against my palm. A fresh gush of answering wetness seeped from me, a silent admission.
A lot of water was dripping from my pussy, too. The sensation was of a deep, internal melting. The pussy had become so wet, so treacherously slick, that I knew the cock could go in even without oil or lubrication. It was a readiness that was both terrifying and thrilling. I was a ripe fruit, split by my own juice.
Holding him still through the cloth, I began to move, rocking my hips minutely. I started rubbing and grinding Babuji’s cock head against the soaked silk of my petticoat, seeking the notch of my pussy slit through the layers. The pressure was a blunt, glorious promise.
Babuji understood. He stiffened, a low groan vibrating from his chest into mine. He understood that his bahu had become very thirsty, parched for a rain only he could bring. He was probably waiting for this moment, this final surrender. Because he knew his cock was very thick and big. A knowing, and a pride, tinged his every touch. Since I was getting fucked by my Babuji for the first time, I wouldn’t be able to bear his cock. The thought was there, unspoken but palpable in the careful, deliberate pace of his seduction. Because I wasn’t used to such a thick cock yet. My husband’s cock, my sweet, boyish husband’s, was a slender flute compared to Babuji’s rugged, columnar instrument.
That’s why Babuji wanted my lust to increase beyond limits, wanted my pussy to become a completely wet, yielding swamp before he attempted to plant his flag. He was a wise cultivator, preparing the soil.
At that time, as he shifted and the last barriers of cloth were pushed aside, Babuji’s cock, freed, looked to my wide eyes like a mad bull, sleek and dark and ready to ravage a lush, forbidden field. Babuji settled himself between my legs, which had fallen open of their own volition, and his horse-like cock, proud and veined, was eager to dive into my pond and measure its depth. It nudged against my thigh, a heavy, living weight. Babuji’s horse-like cock wanted to enter my pond’s depth and see how much water was there, to stir the silt at the very bottom.
I was rubbing his head, now bare and slick with its own moisture, directly against the naked, weeping lips of my pussy. The contact was so acutely electric I gasped. And Babuji, with a grunt of finality, grabbed both my legs just below the knees with his hard hands and spread them fully, opening me like a book written in a secret script. There was no gentleness in the gesture, only a stark, thrilling purpose.
Babuji’s cock head was kissing and caressing its new bride queen, coaxing her. The hot touch of Babuji’s cock on my pussy felt like someone had placed a hot iron rod against the most tender, hidden part of me—not to brand, but to test, to awaken. It was a heat that promised to reshape me.
I was terribly scared, too, because now my pussy’s band was about to play. The orchestra of my body was tuning up, and the maestro was this fierce, unfamiliar instrument pressing at my gate.
Then Babuji gave a light thrust, an experimental nudge. How could Babuji’s bamboo-like weapon go in so easily? It met the resilient, clenched ring of my entrance and simply… halted. Babuji placed his cock on my pussy again and thrust, but this time, too, it bent to one side, sliding along my wetness instead of piercing it, a ship failing to find its harbor in the fog.
So Babuji looked at me, his face sheened with sweat in the dim light, and said mischievously, smiling a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, “Sushma! A guest has come standing at your threshold. The poor thing has weak eyesight and only one eye. That’s why he can’t enter your house. Will you show him the way a bit so he can come inside?”
The absurdity, the earthy poetry of it, cut through my fear. A giggle, hysterical and warm, bubbled up from my well-kissed throat. I also said mischievously to Babuji, my voice a husky whisper, “Babuji! Your guest is welcome inside my house. Send him in; I’ve been waiting for him for so long.”
Babuji’s smile deepened, a flash of white in his dark beard. “Daughter! You do one thing—hold him and place him at the house door; I’ll push him inside. Hold him properly with your hand and place him well; I’ll thrust. Okay?”
So shyly, my bravado melting back into tremulous anticipation, I said to Babuji, “Yes, Babuji! But…” I bit my lip, the fear returning in a cold trickle. “But your guest is very thick, and the house door is very narrow; he won’t fit.”
Babuji chuckled, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through his body into mine. “Sushma! Just hold and place him at the gate properly. He’ll go in.” Then, looking directly into my eyes, his own holding a universe of dark, smiling knowledge, he added, “It goes in—all women take it in, so why not you? The thicker it is, the more pleasure it gives. Just let it in.”
But I was a bit scared. The sheer physical reality of it overwhelmed me. How would this 9-inch and so thick one go inside me, a space that had known only modest, familiar traffic? Clinging to Babuji’s neck, I buried my face against his shoulder and whispered directly into his ear, my words a hot, desperate plea, “Babuji, please fuck gently; my juicy pussy has only been fucked by your son’s small cock; I’m a virgin for your cock’s size; my dear Babuji, your cock is very thick and long—don’t crush and ruin this bud.”
Babuji turned his head and filled my lips in his mouth again, a deep, swallowing kiss that tasted of shared secrets and patience. He released them with a soft pop. “Bahurani, don’t worry at all. Once let it in, then you’ll never forget this pleasure in life; there’ll be a little pain, but bear it, Sushma.”
Then, gathering courage from some deep, untapped well within me, I reached down. My fingers closed around him. The feel of him in my hand, the satin skin stretched taut over an iron core, the throb of his pulse against my palm—it was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. I held Babuji’s cock and, guiding him, placed its broad, smooth head directly at my pussy hole. Babuji’s head was like a thick, ripe tomato; it covered my entire entrance, blotting it out, claiming it. A wave of intense vulnerability washed over me, and I started writhing, not in passion now, but in a primal struggle between invitation and resistance. Babuji applied a little pressure with his cock on the pussy.
But Babuji’s cock wasn’t going in. My body, despite its wet readiness, balked at the monumental intrusion. I started squirming; the slick cock head slipped out again, leaving a trail of fire on my thigh.
Babuji let out a frustrated, tender sigh. “Sushma! The cock head is a bit thick. That’s why it’s not going in. You do one thing—I’ll lift your legs and place them on my shoulders; you spit a little on your pussy and my cock. It’ll create some lubrication.”
Before I could protest, his hands were under my knees, lifting. He arranged me, folding me almost in half, placing my calves firmly on the broad shelf of his shoulders. Now I was completely trapped, exposed, my most secret self presented to him like an offering on an altar. I couldn’t even move if I wanted. The power dynamic shifted irrevocably; I was the vessel, he the potentate. Anyway, whatever happens, we’ll see, I thought, a fatalistic wave calming the storm in my nerves.
I gathered a little spit onto my fingertips, the act intimate and crude. I applied it to my own pussy hole, feeling the cool contrast to my heated flesh, and then, reaching down again, smeared a little onto Babuji’s bulbous, purple head. Then I held the cock, this massive, patient beast, and started rubbing it in my tight pussy slit, coating us both in our shared moisture.
When the pussy became very slick, a tiny, sucking sound with each pass, Babuji pressed his head against me once more. This time, there was no sliding away. The head, a relentless, smooth conqueror, began its work. It started spreading the small, soft hole; I felt my pussy walls, tight and virginal for him, being forced open sideways by the slow, inexorable pressure. And I started writhing, not with pleasure, but in a sharp, bright pain. It was a stretching, a tearing of something more than tissue—a rending of my old self.
It was becoming difficult for Babuji to hold back, too; I could see the cords stand out in his neck, feel the tremor in his thighs where they pressed against mine. With a final, guttural sound that was half curse, half prayer, he gave a tight, determined thrust into my pussy.
But my pussy was so small for Babuji’s cock that it admitted only a brutal, partial victory. Only half the head went in, lodging itself inside me like a stone wedged in a stream.
The pain was instantaneous, blinding. It was a white-hot spear of pure sensation, splitting me in two. A scream tore from my throat, raw and unfiltered. “Aa aa si si Babuji gently! Si si aah aah ouch mom ouch ouch uff Babuji do it gently; it hurts a lot aa aah!” The words were a chaotic litany, invoking him, my mother, the pain itself.
Babuji did not withdraw. Instead, he lay his full weight upon me, a warm, crushing comfort. He started caressing my hair, his big hands surprisingly tender, stroking the strands back from my damp forehead. He kissed my tears as they spilled from the corners of my eyes, his lips catching the salty trails. He whispered wordless sounds into my skin, a steady, grounding murmur against the storm of hurt. He held himself perfectly, agonizingly still, buried to the hilt of that first, impossible inch, allowing my violated flesh to clench and flutter around this new, shocking fullness. The pain did not recede, but it changed, mingling with the profound intimacy of his stillness, his kisses, the utter possession of my body by his. The tears came to my eyes, not just of pain, but of a strange, devastating surrender. The bud was not crushed. It was being opened, petal by reluctant petal, by a force as patient and inevitable as the dawn.
A gasp, thin and sharp as a sliver of glass, escaped my lips. The world, the dim room, the weight of him—it all narrowed to that single, searing point of invasion. A white-hot brand of pure sensation, annihilating thought. My back arched, a bowstring drawn too tight, my fingers scrabbling against the coarse weave of the bedsheet, clutching fistfuls of it as if it were the edge of a cliff. A silent scream locked in my throat, my eyes wide, seeing nothing, seeing everything—the shadowed planes of his face above me, the dust motes dancing in a sliver of moonlight, the absolute, irrevocable *fullness*.
He was buried to the hilt. There was no more *in* to go. His thighs, coarse with hair, pressed flush against the tender skin of my buttocks, a seal. A completion. The burning was not subsiding; it was transforming, deepening, becoming a part of the architecture of my body. My inner walls, so violently stretched, pulsed around the hard, thick column of him with a frantic, biological rhythm. They did not welcome it; they *contained* it, a vessel holding a storm.
Tears, hot and profuse, streamed from the corners of my eyes, tracing paths through the sweat at my temples. The panties he had stuffed in my mouth lay discarded beside my cheek, a damp, silken witness. My cries, when they found voice, were not words but raw sounds, torn from a place older than language.
“Oh, Babuji! I am dead. I am *dead*.” The words were a keening wail. “Your Sushma is fucked. Ruined.” My hands fluttered to where our bodies joined, but I dared not touch, fearing the confirmation of damage. “It is torn… it is in shreds. Oh, Ma, someone save me… Babuji has torn his bahurani’s delicate pussy.” The title, *bahurani*, tasted like ash and irony on my tongue. “He has shoved his horse-like cock into my young pussy. Haye, what should I do? Someone, save me! Babuji, take it out! I don’t want this… I don’t want to get fucked by you!”
I was babbling, pleading, my voice climbing into hysterical registers. I pushed weakly at his chest, but he was a mountain, immovable. My tears, my frantic struggles—they seemed to have no purchase on him. For the first time, the man who had always been attuned to my slightest sigh, who had coaxed me with sweet words and gentle touches, seemed to exist in a separate realm. His eyes, fixed on mine, held a dark, glazed intensity. He was listening not to my words, but to the frantic clutch of my flesh around his, to the seismic tremors passing from my body into his.
He did not withdraw. He lay upon me, a living, breathing weight, his cock a rooted, burning truth inside me. The initial, catastrophic shock began, by infinitesimal degrees, to mutate. The pure, sharp agony at the threshold began to diffuse, to blend with other sensations. The deep, internal stretching was still an ache, but it was no longer the scream of tearing silk; it was the profound strain of a vessel being filled beyond its known capacity. A strange, wet heat pooled between us, my own body’s traitorous response, mixing with the slickness he had left within me. It created a subtle, shameful lubrication that allowed me to feel, for the first time, the *texture* of him—the prominent vein pulsing along his underside, the fierce, living rigidity.
He lowered his head, and his breath was hot against my ear. “Sushma,” he murmured, his voice a rough vibration that went straight through my core. “My dear, dear bahurani. The worst is past. The bridge is crossed. Now… now there is only feeling.”
He shifted, the movement microscopic. It was not a thrust, but a settling. The movement sent a new kind of shockwave through me—not of pain, but of a startling, undeniable *friction*. A spark in the dark, damp heart of me.
I whimpered, but the sound was different. The edge of panic was softening, blunted by this new, confounding sensation. My fingernails, which had moments ago scored his back, now rested there, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the rapid, galloping rhythm of his heart. The scratches I had made were raised welts under my fingertips.
“You see?” he whispered, his lips moving against my jaw. “Your body is learning. It is a clever pupil. It knows what it is made for.”
Tentatively, experimentally, the clenched fist of my inner muscles relaxed a fraction. Just a whisper of release. And in that space, the sensation bloomed. The burning was still there, but it was now laced with a throbbing warmth, a fullness that was not just intrusion, but occupation. A claiming.
A soft, broken moan escaped me, this one devoid of words. My head rolled back on the pillow, my tears still flowing, but they were no longer just tears of pain. They were the overflow of a sensation too vast to contain—a tumultuous sea of hurt and a strange, nascent, creeping pleasure, so intertwined they had become inseparable.
Babuji felt it. He felt the subtle yielding, the minute change in the tension of my limbs. A low, gratified sound rumbled in his chest, a sound that vibrated through his body and into mine.
“That is it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Let it happen. Do not fight your Babuji. You take him so well… so perfectly. You are made for this.”
He began to move. Not the brutal, conquering thrust that had sheathed him, but a slow, infinitesimal retreat. The sensation of him sliding out, even a mere fraction of an inch, was a revelation. It was a relief, and yet, it created a sudden, aching emptiness where the overwhelming fullness had been. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, a silent plea I did not understand myself.
He paused, his cockhead lodged deep within that sensitized, confused channel. He smiled, a knowing, tender smile that held a universe of dark promise. “You see?” he breathed. “Even in pain, the body seeks its pleasure. It is a wise thing, the body. Wiser than the mind.”
Then, with a control that was its own kind of cruelty, he pressed forward again, sinking back to the root. This time, the sear was familiar. This time, it was laced with that treacherous, gathering heat. A choked cry left my lips, but my hands were not pushing him away. They were gripping his shoulders, my blunt nails digging in once more, but now as an anchor, not a weapon.
He established a rhythm, slow and deep and inexorable. Each withdrawal was a tantalizing lesson in loss. Each return was a homecoming to a fire that was slowly, insidiously, becoming my own. The pain did not vanish. It lived in the stretching, in the deep, internal pressure. But it was now woven through with threads of something else—a shocking, localized heat that began to spread from the very core he was so diligently stirring. It was a spark fanned by the relentless, rhythmic friction, by the wet, intimate sounds of our joining, by the sheer, overwhelming reality of his possession.
I was no longer pleading for him to stop. My cries had morphed into a continuous, breathy litany—*si, si, aah, aah, Babuji… oh, Babuji…*—each sound punched out of me by his measured thrusts. The tears still wet my cheeks, but my eyes were closed now, my face a mask of bewildered rapture. The world had dissolved into sensation: the scrape of his chest hair against my tender nipples, the hot gust of his breath on my neck, the solid, driving pressure between my legs that was simultaneously destroying and creating me.
He watched my transformation, his own breath growing ragged. “My Sushma,” he grunted, his rhythm beginning to falter, to deepen, to become more urgent. “My beautiful, brave bahurani. You feel it now, don’t you? The garden is opening… for its true gardener.”
And I did. I felt it. A coil tightening low in my belly, entirely separate from the ache, a sweet, terrifying tension building on the bedrock of my pain. I was split open, filled, used… and yet, I was flowering. A wanton, shameful blossom watered by my own tears and his relentless, claiming strokes. I was dying, as I had cried out. But it was a death into a new, pulsating life, where pain and pleasure were not opposites, but lovers in a dark, wet, endless embrace. My hips began to meet his, not in flight, but in a clumsy, desperate search for more of that devastating friction. The sound that left me then was a sob of surrender, a recognition of a truth deeper than modesty, deeper than fear.
I was his. Not just in name, but in flesh. Fucked, claimed, and awakening to a pleasure born of my own exquisite ruin.
Time became a slow, syrupy thing, measured not in minutes but in the throb of my own pulse and the heavy, solid presence of him within me. Babuji lay upon me, a warm, living blanket, his weight both a comfort and a constant, startling reminder of the violation—the completion—that had just taken place. My tears were a quiet stream now, no longer the torrential flood of shock, but a steady seepage of overwhelmed sensation. The salt of them mingled with the taste of him on my lips. And inside, a universe of feeling: his cock remained a rooted, burning truth, fully sheathed, a claim so absolute it felt geological.
His voice, when it came, was a murmur against the shell of my ear, tender as a bruise. “Sushma, beti… I am sorry for causing you so much pain.” The apology was a velvet wrapping around a stone. “But whatever pain was meant to happen, it has happened now. My cock… it is big for your little pussy. The first time it goes in, pain is a gate that must be passed. That is why I put it all in today. To break the gate, not to make you suffer at the threshold forever. Forgive your Babuji.”
He shifted slightly, a minute adjustment that sent a fresh, complex shudder through my core. “Touch,” he whispered, his hand guiding mine down the trembling plane of my own stomach, over the thatch of hair, to where our bodies were fused. “Feel. The entire cock has gone in. Your pussy… see? It has taken it all inside. Every last bit of me. The battle is over, Sushma. Now… now it is only pleasure after pleasure.”
My fingers, trembling, encountered the shocking join. The base of him, thick and hot, was buried flush against me. My own swollen flesh was stretched taut around him, a silken, straining seal. And lower, the heavy, hair-roughened weight of his balls was pressed tight to the curve of my ass, a humid, intimate anchoring. They felt like two ripe, sacred fruits offered to an altar. They were not just touching; they were adhered, as if with some primal, biological glue. The image he planted—Fevicol—was absurd, profane, and perfectly, devastatingly accurate.
A strange calm began to seep into my bones. This was not my first time being fucked, and so I knew the terrible, final beauty of it. The deed was done. The penance of so many longing days, of stolen glances and fevered imaginings in the dark, had reached its climax. God, or some darker deity, had finally bestowed the prasad I had craved: not sanctified sweets, but the living, throbbing flesh of my father-in-law, buried deep inside me. The secret we had both nurtured, the craving we had circled like wary animals, had finally been consummated. I, Sushma, had succeeded. I was being fucked by my own Babuji.
My crying subsided into hiccupping breaths. Babuji, attuned to every tremor of my body, sensed the shift. The wildfire of pain was being banked, becoming a manageable, smoldering heat.
He made to move. A tentative, almost experimental withdrawal. But the delicate tissues inside me, traumatized and clenched in protective reflex, had dried from the searing passage. They clung to him with a desperate, suctioning grip. As he began to pull out, a sharp, tearing sensation made me gasp—it felt as if the very lining of my pussy was being inverted, trying to follow its invader out into the cold air.
“Haye, Babuji,” I cried out, my hands flying to his hips to still him. “Don’t take it out! Let it stay… let it stay inside.”
He stilled, and when I looked up, his eyes were crinkled with a fond, knowing amusement. “Sushma!” he chided gently, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek. “You are a strange one too. Just a moment ago, you were weeping and screaming for Babuji to take it out. Now, when I am taking it out, you will not let me.”
A smile, the first genuine one since this began, touched my own lips. It felt mischievous, a secret shared in the ruins of my modesty. “Babuji! It is my wish,” I said, my voice still thick with tears but laced with a new, daring thread. “Whether I ask to take it out or to put it in… what do you care? This… this guest has come into my house for the first time. What is the hurry? Let him rest inside a little longer.”
His laughter was a warm rumble that vibrated through his chest into mine, a strangely intimate echo of the connection below. He acquiesced, settling his weight upon me once more. For a long while, he did not move his hips. Instead, he devoted himself to my breasts, his mouth drawing first one nipple, then the other, into a wet, sucking heat. The sharp, sweet pull of his mouth was a counterpoint to the deep, stationary fullness below. It was a distraction and an awakening. Slowly, under the dual ministrations, the terrible dryness began to ease. A new, slick warmth bloomed from within me, my body’s traitorous, welcoming response. The initial shock was receding, leaving in its wake a raw, hungry sensitivity.
And with that wetness came a new, restless craving. The pain had become a background hum; the foreground was now filled with a throbbing, empty need. I wanted him to move. I needed the friction, the completion of the act, the proof that this was not just a violation but a joining. But Babuji, the experienced, cunning man, lay perfectly still. He suckled at my breast like a contented infant, his cock buried to the hilt as if it were a natural, permanent extension of his body, as if he had forgotten the fierce purpose that had driven it there.
The stillness became its own exquisite torment. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. Then another. The restlessness built into a quiet frenzy. I was dying not from pain, but from anticipation.
“Babuji!” I finally gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Enough now. Do something. I am dying. I cannot bear it anymore. Start your work.”
He lifted his head from my breast, his mouth glistening. His eyes held a playful, maddening light. “What should I do, bahurani?” he asked, innocence dripping from his words. “Tell me something, then I will do it.”
The question was a trap, a delicious, shameful precipice. How could a bahu instruct her sasur? How could I give voice to the crude, hungry command pounding in my blood? My cheeks burned. In answer, I pushed my hips upwards in a small, unmistakable thrust, seeking movement, seeking him.
But he was in a teasing mood. He remained motionless, a statue of male satisfaction. “Sushma?” he prompted, his voice a low tease. “What do you want? Say it with your mouth. I did not understand.”
Shamelessness, when it finally broke, came in a warm, rushing wave. I closed my eyes, shutting out the sight of his expectant face, and let the words fall from my lips, raw and unfiltered. “Babuji! Enough… do not torment me more. Just start… start moving the cock in and out. Quickly. Fuck your bahurani, Babuji. I cannot bear it anymore. Fuck your Sushma. Hard and fast.”
His smile was a victor’s smile, soft and utterly possessive. “Sushma!” he pretended to scold. “Just now you were saying my guest has come inside you, so do not take him out. Now you are asking to move him in and out.”
I opened my eyes then, meeting his gaze. A new boldness, born of utter desperation and burgeoning pleasure, lit me from within. “It is my body, and my house,” I said, my voice gaining strength. “Whether I keep the guest inside or move him in and out… what is it to you? It is my wish. The guest has rested long enough. Now tell him to start some work.”
He laughed, a sound of pure, dark joy. And he finally ceased his delay.
He began with a slow, cautious withdrawal. I felt the slick drag of him, the sensitive inner flesh clinging then releasing. A faint echo of pain made me wince, my eyes squeezing shut. He saw it, but he did not stop. This time, he pulled out perhaps two inches, then pushed back in with a firm, deliberate thrust. A gasp was punched from my lungs. He pulled out three inches, then sank home again. I lay still, my teeth clenched, riding the wave of sensation—a blend of residual sting and that shocking, gathering heat. He looked down at me, a silent question in his eyes. Is it okay? I gave a tiny, quick nod. Continue.
And so he did. Each stroke was a lesson, a re-mapping of my interior. Each time, he drew a little more of himself out into the cool air before plunging back into the welcoming, wet heat. He was teaching my body the rhythm of him, stretching me with a patient, relentless pedagogy. In a short while, his entire length was sliding in and out with a smooth, obscene comfort. Now, he would pull out until just the thick crown remained nestled at my entrance, teasing the stretched rim, before driving back in with a powerful, piston-like push that slammed his balls against my flesh.
The pain had receded to a distant cousin of pleasure—a sharp, bright edge that only served to highlight the deep, rolling wave of sensation building behind it. I was no longer a vessel for hurt. I was becoming an instrument for his use, and in that use, I found a shocking, profound enjoyment.
Babuji saw the change in me. He hooked his hands under my knees, spreading my legs wide, opening me fully to his sight and his thrusts. And then he began to fuck me in earnest.
His pace transformed. No longer the careful, instructional rhythm, but a deep, driving, animal tempo. His cock moved in and out of my well-slicked channel like a train piston—the analogy was crude, mechanical, and utterly perfect. It was a force of nature, a relentless, rhythmic claiming. In-out. In-out. The sound was a wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh, our sweat mingling, the bed protesting beneath us.
And the pleasure… it was immense. It was a towering wave that rose from the very spot where our bodies joined, a concentrated sun of sensation that burned away the last remnants of shame and fear. It was not sweet. It was fierce, primal, a conquering and a surrender happening in the same instant. Each deep, full thrust sent shocks radiating outwards, making my toes curl, my fingers clutch at the sheets, my back arch to meet him. My cries were no longer of pain, but of a stunned, escalating rapture—aah… aaah… Babuji… yes…—a mantra to the god of this delicious, forbidden friction.
He was fucking me. My father-in-law was fucking me. And in the raw, physical truth of it, in the sheer breathtaking rightness of the feel of him moving inside me, all other truths—of family, of morality, of society—melted away. There was only this: the piston, the wave, the pleasure, and the dark, loving eyes of the man who was giving it to me.
The rhythm possessed him, a relentless, mechanical piston driving into the soft, yielding heart of me. In, out. In, out. A locomotive of flesh at full, devastating speed, each thrust a shockwave that travelled through my spine to the very crown of my skull. The world dissolved into a white-noise hum of pure sensation. The initial, cataclysmic pain was not gone, but it had been subsumed, transformed into the very fuel of a pleasure so immense it felt like a form of madness.
My own voice was a foreign instrument, playing sounds I did not recognize. Moans, long and ululating, tore from my throat, punctuated by breathless screams that were half-plea, half-triumph.
“Babuji! Harder! Fuck your bahurani, Babuji! Fuck your Sushma, hard and harder!” The words, filthy and delicious, felt like petals dropping from a poisoned flower. “Tear it! My pussy is so thirsty… this needy one has troubled me for so long… tear it into pieces today! Aah! Aah! Babuji! Fuck your bahurani’s dear little pussy!”
I was babbling, unhinged, a vessel overflowing with the raw sap of this act. There was no mind, no morality, no tomorrow. There was only the pounding present, the slick, wet friction, and the dark, possessive figure moving over me, in me. He was the axis of my universe, the creator of this storm.
He bent, a dark eclipse, and his mouth found my breast. Not the gentle suckling of before, but a hungry, voracious claim. His lips sealed around the peak, his tongue a firm, circling pressure, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub with a threat that was its own promise. His other hand kneaded the soft flesh of my other breast, his fingers learning its weight, its give. Pleasure, sharp and electric, arced from those twin points, radiating outwards in molten waves to merge with the deep, pounding rhythm below. My body was a map, and he was charting every contour, claiming every territory.
And my pussy… it was no longer a passive sheath. It had become a living, greedy mouth. With each of his withdrawals, my inner muscles clenched in a frantic, milking pulse, as if trying to draw the very essence from him. The heat there was furnace-like, a wet, primal inferno. I thought, in a dizzy flash, that any boy, any untested man, would have been emptied by now, vanquished by this sudden, voracious hunger of mine. But this was Babuji. A seasoned traveller in these dark lands. He held on, his thrusts measured and deep, a master weathering the storm he himself had conjured. A hot stream, my own slickness mixed with something more, flowed from our joined flesh, soaking the sheets beneath us with the undeniable evidence of my ruinous awakening.
My hips began to move of their own volition, a clumsy, rising counterpoint to his drives. The moans were continuous now, a breathless soundtrack to my undoing. The pain was a distant cousin, a faint, grounding ache beneath the roaring cascade of sensation.
Again, his mouth worked at my breast, and a sharp, sweet pang of relief-pleasure shot through me, so intense it bordered on pain. He waited, letting the sensation crest, then resumed his thrusts—lighter now, almost teasing, a torturous variation on the deep pounding. He was an artist, this man. A connoisseur. He was not just taking his pleasure; he was orchestrating mine, conducting the symphony of my nerves with a cruel, exquisite precision. He fucked me slowly, his eyes drinking in every flinch, every shudder, as if he were sucking the very responses from my skin. My hand, trembling, found its way to his hair, my fingers tangling in the coarse, sweat-damp strands. I was no longer just enduring; I was participating. I was enjoying.
I showered kisses over his face—his stubbled cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth—a desperate, grateful benediction. All this time, my eyes were tightly shut. To look felt like a surrender too final, an acknowledgement that would shatter the last fragile veil between the woman I was and the creature I was becoming.
His voice, rough with effort, broke through the haze. “Did you enjoy it, daughter?”
I could only manage a wordless hum of assent, a nod against his shoulder. Hmmmmm…
“Then open your eyes,” he commanded, his breath hot against my ear. “And say it.”
I shook my head, a feeble denial. Unnnhhh…
A mock sadness tinged his voice. “Am I that bad? That you won’t even look at me?”
My eyes flew open immediately, a reflexive defense. “Dare you!” I gasped, the words laced with a surprising ferocity. “Never call yourself bad again… You’re my dearest Babuji!”
A satisfied smirk touched his lips. “That’s what I thought. Because you’ve kept your eyes closed till now.”
“If you didn’t appeal to me,” I whispered, the truth of it shuddering through me, “I would never have given you my body. It is my most precious thing. Don’t you ever bring such a thought into your mind again.”
“Then look into my eyes,” he said, his gaze holding mine with a magnetic force, “and tell your Babuji, ‘Fuck me, my Babuji, so Babuji enjoys too.’”
A hot wave of shame washed over me. “I’m shy.”
“Shy from whom? Me?”
“Yes!”
“What shyness from me?” he asked, his hips giving a deliberate, deep roll that made me gasp. “Now I am fucking with my entire cock in your pussy. And you’ve checked with your own hand that the whole cock has gone in. So, is there still shyness left?”
I said nothing, my cheeks burning. He was dismantling me, piece by piece.
“Okay,” he said, as if arriving at a conclusion. “Now I understand. Until I keep thrusting my entire cock in your pussy, your shyness won’t fully end.”
“It’s not like that,” I protested weakly.
“Then shall I not put the whole cock in?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“Then what should I do?” he asked, a playful challenge in his eyes. “Tell me…!”
I turned my head, my lips brushing the rough shell of his ear. The words that emerged were a soft, hot confession, breathed directly into him. “You’ve put your everything in my pussy. And now… do whatever else is left. So tomorrow you don’t say something was left undone—that your Sushma refused to let you fuck in this way. Do whatever you want. Wholeheartedly.”
I do not know how those words escaped. They were the fruit of the fucking, a ripe, fallen thing from the tree of my corruption. But their effect was instantaneous.
A guttural sound ripped from his throat. The tender play was gone. In its place was a vigorous, unleashed hunger. He hooked his hands under my knees, lifting my legs high into the air, spreading them wide, opening me utterly. He watched, his eyes dark with a feral fascination, as his cock, glistening with our mingled wetness, drove into me and withdrew, over and over. The visual obscenity of it, the raw seeing of the act, sent a fresh, shocking bolt of pleasure through me.
From this savage pounding, a climax tore through me—a second one, sharper than the first, a convulsive rippling that clamped down on him like a silken fist. He only grunted, his pace never faltering, his enjoyment now a purely physical, driving thing. My breasts jiggled wildly with the force of his thrusts. Sometimes his hand would dart down to capture one, to squeeze or pinch the nipple; other times, his grip would vise around my waist, holding me steady for a series of fast, brutal jerks that stole the breath from my lungs.
The pleasure was a peak, but even peaks have a far side. The prolonged, relentless friction began to turn. A new sensation bloomed—a hot, internal burning, a tenderness that edged back towards pain. I bore it for a time, lost in the dizzying rhythm, but eventually, it grew too sharp, too insistent. I began to push weakly at his chest, my body tensing in a wordless plea for respite.
He stopped, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering with the effort of his restraint. “What is it?”
“It… it burns,” I whispered, the admission feeling like a failure.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Just this? You should have told me earlier. I have a simple cure for it.”
“What?” I asked, my voice small.
“Just watch.”
In one smooth motion, he pulled his cock out. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cool void where there had been overwhelming heat and pressure. I gasped. He held himself above me, and with a deliberate slowness, he began to rub the broad, slick head of his cock against my swollen, aching entrance. The relief was immediate and profound. The cool air, the gentle, circular pressure—it soothed the burning. I looked down, between our bodies. My pussy, which had seemed such a small, secret flower, now looked different. The lips were puffed and ruddy, the entrance visibly softened, stretched, used. The hole, once a tight, hidden bud, now appeared slightly gaped, a testament to the relentless ‘pestle’ that had opened me to unknowable depths.
I was lost in this contemplation, this strange mix of horror and fascination with my own altered body, when I felt a new sensation. A warm stream, startling in its heat, began to fall onto my sensitive mound. It was not the slickness of arousal. It had a different texture, a different scent. It stung. A sharp, biting pain flared where the liquid touched my abraded flesh. Obviously, a detached part of my mind observed, what happens when salty water is poured on a wounded pussy.
I whimpered, but Babuji did not stop. Instead, he fitted the head of his cock back into my sore, protesting entrance. And then, he began to urinate inside me.
The sensation was the most bizarre thing I had ever felt. A strange, full heat, blossoming deep within my core. I could feel the hot liquid jetting, filling spaces his cock had only touched. A deep, internal pain twisted inside me for a moment, a protest of violated tissue. But as the initial shock passed, as the hot flow continued, something shifted. The burning from the friction was being washed away, replaced by this shocking, intimate warmth. The pain subsided, and in its wake came a strange, profound… relief. A liquid fullness that was neither pleasure nor pain, but something else entirely. A primitive marking. A claiming that went deeper than seed.
I lay still, my breath catching, my body accepting this final, bewildering gift. He was not just fucking me. He was remaking me, from the inside out. And in the quiet aftermath of that hot, internal stream, I realized with a terrifying clarity that I was letting him.
A new rhythm possessed me, a deep, internal pulse that demanded expression. My legs, which had moments ago lain trembling and passive, found a will of their own. I wrapped them around Babuji’s waist, not in a delicate embrace, but with a firm, anchoring strength. I pulled him toward me, my hips rising off the bed in a wordless, urgent plea. It was a signal, clear and unmistakable in the silent language our bodies were composing. Again. Fill me again. Shatter me again.
And he understood. He did not need words. A low, guttural sound of approval vibrated from his chest into mine as he began to move. This was different from before—not the careful, devastating conquest of my virginity, nor the slow, instructional strokes that followed. This was a claiming. He started pounding, hard and deep, each thrust a deliberate, piston-like stroke meant to open me, to widen the aching, sensitized channel he had forged. My pussy, still throbbing from its initial violation, was being remolded with every penetration, taught a new, brutal geometry.
With each withdrawal, a strange phenomenon occurred. A warm, sudden trickle would escape me, a release of clear fluid that was not the thick, musky arousal he had coaxed from me earlier. It was the unmistakable sensation of urine, a small, shameful leak forced out by the pressure of his retreating cock. And then, as he thrust home again, the flow would be abruptly, perfectly sealed, his girth plugging the source. It was a bizarre, carnal cycle—out with his leaving, stopped by his return. A sensation impossible to describe, only to be felt with a kind of awestruck horror: the utter loss of bodily control, the body reduced to a simple, responsive vessel. In the midst of this base, animal reality, my pleasure spiraled higher. My eyes, which had flown open in shock at the first leak, closed again, surrendering to the dark, wet symphony of sensation.
After a timeless interval of this relentless pounding, Babuji shifted. He pulled his cock out with a wet, sucking sound, and the warm trickle followed, a final surrender. Before I could even process the sudden emptiness, he bent over me, his head lowering between my splayed thighs. He did not hesitate. He stuck his tongue, broad and seeking, deep into my well-used pussy. He licked with a fervent, possessive hunger, lapping at the mingled fluids—my juices, his own earlier release, the faint, salty tang of urine. It did not matter to him. In his mouth, all of me was sacred, all of me was his to consume. The intimacy of it, this unflinching carnal worship, sent a shock of dizzying heat through my core. My eyes remained closed, my body floating in a semi-conscious sea of spent pleasure and gathering new need. I was a thing of sensation, adrift.
Then, he moved again, his actions decisive. He pulled me up from the bed, my limbs limp and pliant. He turned me, made me stand on shaky legs before him where he sat on the edge of the bed. His strong hands slid under my thighs, and he lifted me as if I weighed nothing, settling me onto his lap, impaling me once more on his hard, waiting cock from below. The angle was transformative. As he began to thrust upwards, the base of his shaft rubbed fiercely, perfectly, against my exposed, swollen clit with every powerful lift of his hips.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic to my remaining composure. Pleasure, sharp and focused as a lightning strike, jolted through me. A cry, thin and high, tore from my throat. My pussy, in response to this exquisite torment, began to release its own clear, copious water in a continuous, helpless stream. It was not urine this time, but a pure, erotic flood, a sign of a body pushed beyond its limits of arousal. Believe me or not, in the span of three breathless minutes, that familiar, terrifying tension coiled in the pit of my stomach, tighter and tighter. I was hurtling toward the edge of an abyss I had never glimpsed before.
My legs, wrapped around his back, began to tremble uncontrollably. My entire body felt wrecked, unraveling at the seams. My strength fled, and I collapsed forward, a boneless heap against his solid chest, my face buried in the sweat-damp hollow of his neck. A continuous, breathy “Aaaahhh…” escaped me with each of his upward drives. In this position, he could bury himself to the very root with every thrust, and he did, the sound of our meeting flesh a wet, rhythmic slap in the quiet room. My own arousal soaked his cock and balls, dripping in warm rivulets onto the sheets beneath us. I clung to his neck, my arms my only anchor, lost in the primal rhythm of his possession.
Then it began—a strange, electric restlessness deep in my core, a building pressure that was both agony and ecstasy. I recognized it, the specter of that earlier, smaller release, now magnified a thousandfold. Fear and desire became one. I tightened my arms around his neck, my lips finding his ear.
“Babuji,” I whispered, my voice a ragged thread of sound. “Something is happening to me. I’ll die… do something. I feel something… different. And… increase your speed, too.”
He was experienced. He knew. A sharp, indrawn breath told me he was riding his own razor’s edge. Without a word, he moved, laying me back onto the bed, but with such exquisite care that his cock never once left the clutching warmth of my pussy. The connection remained, unbroken.
Then, the speed he picked—I cannot describe it to you. It was a fury, a final, glorious assault. Babuji started fucking me with a hard, driving tempo that shook me to my very foundation. I felt my inner muscles, my veins, my womb, all quivering in resonance with his power. Sounds were punched from my lungs, raw and unfiltered. “Aah! Aah! Babuji! Faster! And faster! I’m gone… oh, my Babuji, I’m dead! Babuji, your bahurani got fucked by her father-in-law! Babuji, pour your stuff inside your Sushma!” I did not know what I was saying. Ecstasy had stolen my reason, leaving only truth in its raw, profane form.
Suddenly, my body locked. Every muscle tensed. A wave, vast and obliterating, gathered deep within and broke. I crushed my legs around Babuji’s back, my voice a shattered scream. “Babuji! I’m gone! It’s happened to me, Babuji! Oh, God, it’s happened to me!”
And with that, my pussy released its sacred water onto his driving cock. It was my first true climax with him, and it was a cataclysm. A torrent of clear, hot fluid gushed from me, so much that a wave of dizziness washed over me, a feeling of faintness at the sheer, shocking volume of my release. Consciousness flickered; I was not awake, nor asleep, but simply cumming, wave after wave of convulsive pleasure wracking my body in Babuji’s arms.
The sensation of my climax hitting him was the final trigger. A sound like a roar tore from Babuji’s throat. He drove into me with five, six final, desperate thrusts, burying himself as deep as my body would allow. Then, I felt it—a sudden, miraculous swelling at the very root of his cock inside me, a pulsing expansion. And then, jets of hot, thick semen began to shoot from him, a rapid, rhythmic pulsing against my deepest, most tender flesh. He had fucked his bahurani for the first time, and his release was as prodigious as my own. My pussy, already stretched and full, was flooded. Despite the thick plug of his cock, his seed, warm and viscous, began to seep out around the edges, a tangible proof of our sin.
Spent, utterly destroyed, Babuji collapsed forward, his weight a comforting anchor on my ravaged body. For a long, silent time, we lay there, father-in-law and daughter-in-law, entangled in the moist, cooling aftermath, our hearts hammering a slowing duet against each other’s skin.
Eventually, he stirred, lifting himself and then me. We moved like dreamers. A profound, quiet happiness hummed between us, a secret richer than any treasure. He looked at me, his eyes soft.
“Sushma! Did you enjoy it?”
I met his gaze, the shyness returning now that the storm had passed. “Babuji, I enjoyed it a lot. But… it still hurts a lot.”
He smiled, a tender, possessive curve of his lips. “No problem. I’ll give you a painkiller now. Everything will be fine. It’s your first time with such a huge cock, so pain is natural. Next time, there will be much less pain. And after that… only pleasure. You will get used to my cock.”
He kissed me once, slowly, a seal on a pact. Then, with a lover’s thoroughness, he bent and licked my pussy one last time, cleaning away the evidence of our union. He turned me over with gentle hands and attended to me from behind as well, his tongue a final, worshipping caress.
Now it was truly over. And with the completion, a new shyness descended upon me. Even after all we had done, he was my Babuji. The mantle of family, of respect, settled back around our shoulders, forever altered. I saw a similar, thoughtful hesitation in his eyes. He desired me again—I could see the want still smoldering in his gaze—but my pussy ached with a raw, profound soreness. Despite the lingering echoes of pleasure, I did not have the courage for more.
My father-in-law was experienced. He did not ask. He simply kissed me, a chaste brush of lips that held a universe of promise, and then he left, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway toward his own room.
We both knew, without speaking a word. This love relationship that had flowered so violently in the dark between father-in-law and daughter-in-law was not a ended. It had only just begun.
Alone, I fell asleep, my body humming with a deep, satisfied pain, my mind swirling with the memory of Babuji’s fucking, and of a love as terrifying and inevitable as the tide. And that is how my relationship with my father-in-law began, a secret, carnal thread woven into the fabric of our family, a story that continues to be written to this day.
