The house was hushed, wrapped in the kind of stillness that made every sound feel amplified—the faint hum of the ceiling fan stirring the air, the soft creak of the rattan sofa as it settled, the distant call of a koel bird filtering through the half-open jalousie windows. It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low, casting elongated amber shadows across the terracotta-tiled floor of the living room. The air carried the scent of incense from the morning puja—sandalwood and camphor—mingling with the subtle, earthy warmth of jasmine attar that always clung to my aunt's skin. Everyone else was gone: my parents off to a temple visit in the next town, my siblings whisked away to a cousin's birthday party. It was just us, alone in the sprawling old bungalow, the quiet laced with an undercurrent of something unspoken, electric.
She reclined on the low divan in the living room, her figure a mesmerizing contrast to the faded cushions and carved teakwood accents around her. At 40, my aunt Priya was a vision of timeless allure, her body sculpted by discipline rather than indulgence—toned from daily yoga and walks in the garden, yet blessed with curves that turned heads. Her ass was full and voluptuous, round and firm, the kind that filled out the pleats of her sari with effortless grace, swaying like a pendulum with every step. Her breasts were generous, heavy yet high, straining against the tight confines of her emerald green blouse, the low-cut neckline embroidered with gold zari that hinted at the deep cleavage beneath. She wasn't fat; no, her frame was a perfect hourglass—narrow waist cinched by the petticoat's drawstring, hips flaring wide to support that lush posterior, her skin a warm caramel glow, smooth and unblemished. Her legs, crossed elegantly at the ankles, were long and shapely, ending in henna-tattooed feet adorned with silver anklets that chimed softly. Her raven hair was piled in a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face—high cheekbones dusted with a touch of kohl-lined eyes, full lips rouged a deep crimson, and a small bindi on her forehead that accentuated her quiet intensity. The sari, a shimmering silk in deep green with gold borders, draped over her like a lover's caress, the pallu slipping just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder.
I hovered near the doorway, fiddling with my phone, but my gaze kept stealing back to her. She'd been staying with us for a month now, ever since her latest argument with Uncle, who was always away on business trips to Mumbai or Delhi, leaving her to rattle around their empty flat like a forgotten ornament. She looked up from the magazine she'd been flipping through idly, her dark eyes catching mine with that knowing glint. "Beta," she said, her voice a soft lilt, rich with the cadence of our mother tongue, though she switched to English laced with Hindi endearments. "Come here. My feet are aching from all that standing in the kitchen earlier. Be a good boy and massage them for your old masi?"
There was nothing unusual in the request—she often complained of sore feet after cooking elaborate meals for the family—but today, the way she extended one leg toward me, the anklet tinkling like a siren's call, felt different. Charged. I swallowed, nodding, and crossed the room, the tiles cool under my bare feet. Kneeling before her on the woven durree rug, I took her foot in my hands—small, arched, the skin petal-soft despite the faint calluses from her chappals. Her toes, painted a playful red, flexed slightly as I began to knead the sole with my thumbs, pressing into the pressure points with slow, firm circles. The scent of her jasmine attar grew stronger up close, mixed with a subtle warmth from her skin, like sun-warmed earth. She sighed, a deep, contented sound that vibrated through her body, her head tilting back against the cushions, eyes half-closing. "Ahh, that's it... just like that. You've got strong hands, haven't you? Not like your uncle—his are always too busy signing papers to touch me properly."
Her words hung in the air, casual but laced with a bitterness I'd heard before, in late-night conversations over chai. I worked higher, my fingers tracing the curve of her ankle, then up her calf, the sari's fabric whispering against my knuckles as it bunched slightly. The silk was cool to the touch, but her skin beneath radiated heat, toned muscle yielding under my pressure. She watched me through lowered lashes, her chest rising and falling a touch quicker now, the blouse's fabric stretching taut over her breasts with each breath. "You know, at my age... 40 feels like yesterday's news in this house," she murmured, her voice dropping to a confiding hush, like we were sharing secrets in the dead of night. "Everyone treats me like the old furniture—useful for cooking and festivals, but no one really sees me anymore. Your parents are polite, but distant. The kids run around me like I'm invisible. And your uncle... ha, he's a ghost in his own marriage. Always away, always on calls. Nights alone in that big bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would notice if I just... faded away." She paused, her foot flexing in my grasp, toes curling against my palm. "Except you, beta. You look at me like I matter. Like I'm still... desirable."
The word lingered, heavy, her eyes locking onto mine now, dark pools flecked with gold in the slanting light. My hands stilled for a moment, heart pounding, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she shifted, uncrossing her legs to let the other foot rest in my lap, the sari's pleats parting just enough to reveal the smooth expanse of her inner thigh. "Don't stop," she whispered, a command wrapped in velvet. "Higher. My calves are so tight." I obeyed, my fingers gliding up, kneading the firm muscle there, feeling the subtle tremor in her leg. The room seemed smaller, the fan's whir distant, the only sounds now her soft exhales and the faint rustle of silk. Her anklet chimed as she adjusted, her free hand drifting to adjust her pallu, but not before it slipped further, exposing the swell of one breast, the blouse's edge straining against its fullness. "See? This body... it's wasted on them. No one appreciates it. But you do, don't you? I see how your eyes follow me when I bend to pick up the laundry, or when the sari clings after a wash."
Her confession ignited something, the air thickening with unspoken hunger. I murmured agreement, voice thick, my thumbs pressing deeper into her calf, inching toward her knee. She smiled then, slow and predatory, like a tigress sensing weakness. "Good boy. You're the only one who makes me feel... alive." With deliberate slowness, she withdrew her foot from my lap, only to plant it gently against my chest, pushing me back slightly until I was sitting on my heels. The pressure was firm, dominant, her sole warm through my t-shirt. "Now, the other one. And while you work, tell me—do you think about me at night? When you're alone in your room?"
I nodded, mesmerized, taking her other foot and beginning the massage anew, but her words wove a spell, drawing me in. She leaned forward, the sari's folds shifting to reveal more of her midriff, the silver navel chain glinting like a secret. "I do too," she admitted, her voice husky now, laced with a raw edge. "Your uncle's been gone two weeks this time. The bed feels so empty. I lie there, touching myself, imagining hands like yours—young, eager—exploring me. Making me feel wanted again." Her foot flexed in my hands, toes tracing a teasing line up my arm. The confession hung between us, the intensity building like a monsoon cloud, slow but inevitable. My breathing quickened, and she noticed, her eyes darkening. "Show me, then. Massage higher. Prove you want this old woman."
Emboldened, my hands ventured up her calf, fingers brushing the sensitive skin behind her knee, then daring further, grazing the underside of her thigh where the sari met petticoat. Her skin was silkier there, warmer, and she parted her legs just a fraction, the fabric whispering open like an invitation. A soft gasp escaped her, but it was laced with command. "Yes... there. You've got a gentle touch. Not like those boys your age—rough and impatient. You're different. Mine." She shifted again, her foot pressing firmer against my chest, pinning me in place as her hand reached out, cupping my chin, tilting my face up to meet her gaze. Her thumb traced my lower lip, slow and possessive. "Look at me. Really look. Do I look old to you? Unwanted?"
"No, Masi," I whispered, voice cracking, my hands now kneading the plush curve of her inner thigh, inches from the heat radiating from her core. Her sari's pleats had fallen aside, revealing the taut fabric of her petticoat, damp at the crotch—a dark bloom of arousal. The scent hit me then—jasmine deepened by musk, spicy and intoxicating, like masala chai laced with forbidden desire. She was breathing heavier now, her breasts heaving against the blouse, the hooks straining as if begging to be undone.
She released my chin, but only to guide my hand higher, pressing my palm against the damp petticoat, right over her pussy. The heat seared through the cotton, her pulse throbbing under my fingers. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Slow now—stroke me like you mean it." I did, fingers tracing slow circles through the fabric, feeling her grow slicker, the material clinging transparently. She moaned, low and throaty, her head falling back, but her foot stayed firm on my chest, a reminder of her control. "Good... just like that. You've made me wait too long for this. Now, the other side." She withdrew, only to hook her leg over my shoulder, drawing me closer, the anklet cold against my neck.
The intensity coiled tighter, her dominance unfolding like the sari's layers. "Undress me," she commanded softly, her voice a silken whip. My hands trembled as I reached for the blouse hooks, fumbling the first one before she tutted, guiding me. "Slow, beta. Savor it." One by one, the hooks gave way, revealing her breasts—full, dusky-nippled orbs spilling free, heavy and perfect, begging for worship. She shrugged the blouse off, then the sari's pallu, letting it pool around her waist like emerald waves. No bra, just the petticoat now, tied low on her hips, accentuating the flare of her ass as she shifted to give me access.
"Kiss them," she ordered, arching her back, offering her chest. I leaned in, lips brushing the soft underside of one breast, then the nipple, sucking gently as she sighed, her hand tangling in my hair. But she wasn't passive; her free hand tugged at my shirt, pulling it over my head, nails raking my shoulders. "You're mine to play with now. On the floor—lie back." The durree was soft under me as I obeyed, her dominance absolute. She stood, towering for a moment, her sari half-unwound, petticoat hugging her curves, before straddling my chest, her weight pinning me deliciously. Her pussy hovered inches from my face through the thin cotton, the dampness brushing my chin. "Taste me through it first. Tease your masi."
I nuzzled in, tongue pressing against the fabric, the taste salty-sweet seeping through, her moans vibrating above me. She ground slowly, unhurried, her hands cupping her own breasts, pinching nipples as she watched me with hooded eyes. "See? This is what I've craved—someone who worships, not just takes." Minutes stretched, the friction building her wetness until the petticoat was soaked, translucent. Finally, she untied it, letting it fall, revealing her bare pussy—neatly trimmed, glistening folds swollen with need. "Now, properly. Make me shake."
My tongue delved in, slow laps from entrance to clit, savoring her flavor—tangy, spiced like cardamom and desire. She rocked against my face, her thighs clamping my head, but always in control, dictating the pace with tugs on my hair. "Deeper... yes, there." I lingered on her clit, sucking gently, then flattened my tongue to lap broad strokes along her folds, drawing out every quiver. Her breaths came in ragged gasps now, her fingers tightening in my hair, pulling me closer until my nose pressed against her mound, inhaling her deeply. "More," she demanded, voice husky, "suck my clit harder—make it throb for you." I obeyed, lips sealing around the swollen nub, sucking with rhythmic pulls that made her hips buck slowly, her juices coating my chin and dripping down my neck. She rode my face with deliberate slowness, grinding in tight circles, her moans building like a distant thunder—low, throaty, laced with Hindi endearments: "Haaye beta, kitna achha lag raha hai... don't stop, make your masi come." The tension wound tighter, her thighs trembling against my ears, until finally, after what felt like an eternity of teasing licks and sucks, she shattered—her body arching, a shuddering cry tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her, hot floods of her essence spilling into my mouth, tangy and addictive. She held me there through every pulse, her grip unyielding, until the aftershocks faded, leaving her panting, skin flushed a deeper caramel.
She wasn't done—not by a long shot. Her dominance sharpened in the haze of her release, eyes gleaming with possessive hunger as she pulled my head up by the hair, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Look at you, all messy from me," she purred, tracing a finger along my slick chin before licking it clean herself, slow and deliberate, her tongue swirling like a promise. "But I want more. Turn me around—worship my ass now. Show me how much you crave every part of your masi." She shifted, still straddling my chest but twisting her hips until her full, voluptuous ass hovered above my face, cheeks parted just enough by her hands to reveal the tight, dusky pucker between them. The scent was earthier here, musky and intimate, mingled with the remnants of her arousal trickling down. "Lick it," she commanded, lowering slowly, her weight pressing her ass against my mouth. I hesitated for a split second, but her hand fisted in my hair again, guiding me firmly. "Now, beta. Tongue out—flat and wide."
I obeyed, my tongue tracing a tentative stripe from the base of her pussy—still slick and sensitive—up to her asshole, the taste forbidden and heady, like dark honey laced with spice. She moaned, low and approving, pushing back to smother me deeper. "That's it... circle it slow. Tease the rim." I swirled my tongue around the tight ring, feeling it flutter under my touch, her body responding with subtle clenches. She rocked gently, unhurried, dictating the rhythm as I pressed the tip in, probing shallowly, the heat and texture making my cock throb painfully against my pants. "Deeper," she gasped, her voice edged with command, one hand reaching back to spread herself wider, the other pinching her own nipple. I delved further, sucking now—lips sealing around the pucker, tongue flicking and probing as she ground against my face, her moans turning sharper, more demanding. "Suck it like you mean it—make me feel owned." The act stretched on, minutes blurring as I worshipped her ass with fervent licks and sucks, alternating back to her pussy when she tugged my hair downward, sucking her folds anew, lapping up the fresh trickle of arousal. "Yes... drink me, beta. Every drop." Her dominance was intoxicating, her body a throne I served, her commands weaving through the air like incense smoke.
Finally, she lifted herself, turning to face me again, her eyes wild and commanding. "Enough teasing me there. I want your finger inside—now." She reached down, taking my hand and guiding it to her ass, her fingers over mine as she pressed one digit against her slicked rim. "Slow... push in while I watch." I did, feeling the tight resistance give way, her heat enveloping my finger inch by inch until I was buried to the knuckle. She hissed, a mix of pleasure and control, rocking back onto it deliberately. "Pump it—slow, deep. Feel how tight your masi is for you." I obeyed, thrusting gently, curling the finger to graze that sensitive spot inside, her moans vibrating through her as she ground against my hand. After long, torturous minutes—her breaths hitching, her free hand circling her clit—she pulled my finger free with a wet pop, holding it up before my face. "Taste yourself on me," she ordered, her voice a sultry growl. I sucked it clean, the flavor musky and intimate, her eyes locked on mine, darkening with satisfaction. "Good boy. Now, the real fun begins."
She slid down my body, her wet heat leaving a trail on my stomach, until she straddled my hips. Her hands made quick work of my pants, unzipping with deliberate slowness, nails grazing my thighs as she freed my aching cock. It sprang up, throbbing, and she wrapped her fingers around it, stroking languidly—base to tip, thumb circling the head to spread the bead of precum. "Look at you, so hard for your auntie," she teased, her voice dripping with power. "But you don't get inside until you beg properly. Tell me how much you need this—how you'll do anything for me." I pleaded, words tumbling out raw and desperate: "Please, Masi, I need you—your tight pussy, your ass, everything. I'll worship you forever, do whatever you say." She smiled, predatory, hovering her slick entrance just above me, letting the heat tease without mercy. "Louder. Convince me."
My begs echoed in the room, voice cracking as she edged me, stroking slow while denying entry. Satisfied at last, she sank down—inch by torturous inch—her tightness gripping me like a velvet fist, hot and pulsing. "Mine," she growled, bottoming out with a shared gasp, her walls clenching deliberately to make me groan. She didn't rush; instead, she rolled her hips in unhurried circles, grinding deep, her full breasts swaying above me like pendulums. "Touch them—squeeze while I ride you." I reached up, hands cupping the heavy globes, thumbs flicking her nipples as she leaned forward, smothering my face in her cleavage. The scent of her skin—jasmine and sweat—filled my lungs as she pressed down, her weight pinning me. "Suck harder, beta—bite just a little. Make it sting." I latched on, teeth grazing the dusky peaks, sucking with fervent pulls that drew sharp moans from her, her pace quickening ever so slightly but still controlled, deliberate.
As she rode, she grabbed my other hand, guiding it back to her ass. "Finger me again—deeper this time, while I'm full of you." I slipped two fingers now, slick from her arousal, pushing into her tight hole as she slammed down harder, the dual fullness making her shudder. "Yes... fuck my ass with your fingers—match my rhythm." I did, thrusting in time with her rolls, feeling her clench around both my cock and fingers, her moans turning to breathless commands: "Faster now, but don't you dare come. Hold it for me." The intensity built slowly, her body a symphony of control—nails raking my chest, leaving red trails; hips grinding to hit her deepest spots; whispers in my ear, "You're my toy, beta—made for pleasing me."
She came first, of course—her dominance demanded it—walls spasming around me in waves, a guttural cry ripping from her as she arched back, breasts thrusting skyward. But she didn't stop; slowing to torturous grinds, milking every aftershock while denying me release. "Clean me now," she panted, sliding off with deliberate slowness, her juices and mine coating me. She straddled my face again, grinding her dripping pussy against my mouth. "Lick it all—suck my clit until I'm ready for more." I worshipped anew, tongue delving deep into her folds, sucking her swollen lips, lapping the tangy blend of us as she rocked lazily, her hand in my hair directing every flick. "There... yes, swirl inside me. Taste how wet you make your masi." Minutes dragged into bliss, her sensitivity making her twitch with each touch, until she was hovering on the edge again.
Only then did she shift lower, turning to present her ass once more. "Tongue it while you stroke yourself—but no coming." I rimmed her slowly, sucking the pucker as ordered, my free hand fisting my cock under her watchful eye. She reached back, slapping my hand away. "No—edge for me. Stop when you're close." The tease was agony, her dominance absolute as she commanded, "Beg to fuck me again." I did, voice hoarse, and she finally relented, impaling herself reverse now, her voluptuous ass bouncing with each slow descent. "Finger my ass while you watch it swallow you." I did, pushing in deep, twisting as she rode, her moans filling the room.
Her second climax built languidly—hips rolling, commands sharp: "Suck my toes—worship every inch." I bent awkwardly, taking her red-painted toes into my mouth, sucking as she ground down. When she shattered again, clenching vise-like, she finally whispered, "Now—fill me, beta. But only because I allow it." I exploded, groaning into her skin as she milked me dry, her body shuddering in shared release.
Even then, she wasn't sated. Post-climax, she made me kneel, feeding me her fingers slick from us, then demanding one last worship—tongue in her ass while she lounged, spent but commanding. "Clean every crease, slow... make me purr." The evening faded into dusk, her sari discarded like shed inhibitions, her dominance a chain I wore willingly.
From then on, every stolen hour—verandah shadows, midnight sheets—she claimed me utterly, slow and searing. "My secret fire," she'd murmur, pulling me under. And I burned, devoted, endlessly hers.