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I was a small-town boy then, living in a house that was still finding its shape.
The land held two houses. The new one stood in front, half-finished, smelling of fresh cement and dust. The old house lay at the back, broken and tired, its rooms partly open to the sky. Though it was damaged, it felt private—cut off from the front. From where we lived, no sound from the old house could be heard. Once someone went there, they disappeared into silence.
Because of the construction, our family lived divided between the two spaces.
I stayed in one small room of the new house with my grandmother. She was very old and bedridden. Her world had shrunk to that bed—medicines on a stool, a steel glass near her hand, her breathing slow and uneven. At night, the room felt heavy with stillness.
My parents stayed in the old house at the back.
My father, Sunil, was around forty-five—tall, dark, solidly built, his body carrying the weight of years of work. He wasn’t a talkative man. His presence was steady, firm, like something that didn’t move unless it had to.
My mother, Anju, was around thirty-five. She had a healthy, well-formed figure and a soft, open face. She moved with ease, never stiff or guarded, dressing simply but with care. She talked easily, laughed often, and had a way of making people feel welcome without trying. In a small town like ours, that mattered. People trusted her, felt comfortable around her. She stood around 5’4”, her body softly curved and proportionate, shaped by routine rather than restraint. Her figure held a natural fullness—a rounded bust that sat heavy against her chest, filling her blouses comfortably, a gentle curve at the waist, and broad, womanly hips that gave her silhouette a quiet sensuality. Her measurements fell somewhere near 38–30–38, not precise, not sharp, but pleasing in their balance.
That day stood out.
The car was secondhand, a white Maruti 800 with rust chewing at the wheel wells. But when Baba rolled it into the lane that evening, gripping the steering wheel like it was a bull he’d tamed, our neighbors spilled out of their homes. Children pressed sticky fingers against the windows while men circled it, nodding at the dents as if they were battle scars. Women clustered near the gate, their saris fluttering like restless birds.
My father said little, but his posture gave him away. My mother stayed near the gate, answering questions, smiling, brushing off comments as if this attention was just another part of the day.
By evening, the house settled into its usual pattern.
Fufaji came up to the gate like he always did, wiping sweat from his neck. He clapped Baba on the shoulder and laughed.
“Arre Sunil, gaadi le hi li!”
Then, nodding toward the driver’s seat, he added,
“Ab driver bhi rakhna padega… ya Anju ko bhi chalani aati hai?”
Ma shook her head and flicked the edge of her sari at him, smiling.
“Bas bhi kijiye, Jijaji. Kuch bhi bol dete hain.”
Mamaji arrived a little later, slow and relaxed. The smell of paan came with him. He leaned against the car, spat to the side, and looked it over carefully.
“Badiya hai,” he said.
Then, half-smiling, “Lambi drive ke liye bhi… aur chhoti ke liye bhi.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Baba gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind he didn’t usually give.
Something about it made my neck feel strange.
That night, as usual, both of them stayed over.
As it always happened, my parents, Fufaji, and Mamaji settled into the old house at the back. The front quieted down. Lights glowed briefly and then dimmed.
The old house swallowed them in its silence.
From the new house, nothing could be heard.
I went to sleep beside my grandmother. The room was still, untouched by whatever was happening behind.
Sometime later, I woke up.
I needed to pee.
Careful not to disturb her, I slipped out of the room. The night air felt cool against my skin. A single weak bulb near the back cast long shadows over broken walls and open spaces.
The toilet was near the old house.
As I walked past the broken wall, half-asleep, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness—
I suddenly saw something.
I stopped.
My body went completely still, knowing I had seen something I was never meant to see. The dim yellow bulb flickered weakly, casting uneven light across the cracked courtyard. Ma emerged from the kitchen, her bare skin glowing faintly—full, heavy breasts swaying gently with each step, nipples dark against her chest. She carried a steel tray piled with golden-brown chicken fry, the smell of spices and hot oil cutting through the night air. Her hips rolled slightly as she walked, the curve of her waist dipping into the soft swell of her stomach before flaring out again. She didn’t hurry. Didn’t try to cover herself.
I should’ve turned away. But my feet moved forward on their own, drawn toward the gaping hole in the back wall where the mud bricks had crumbled. My pulse hammered as I crouched, pressing against the rough surface, my fingers digging into the dirt. The peephole gave a clear view of the dimly lit room—Fufaji sprawled across the sofa, his hairy chest rising and falling with laughter, Mamaji leaning forward with that lazy grin, Pa sitting upright in his usual quiet dominance. And Ma—completely bare, skin gleaming with sweat—placing the tray between them.
"Arre, Anju," Fufaji chuckled, his thick fingers already reaching for a drumstick. "Ek plate mein toh hum sabka naam aata hai." His other hand slid up her thigh, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
Ma swatted him away, but her laughter was breathless. "Jijaji, pehle khao na... haath dhoye bina nahi?" She bent to serve Pa, her breasts swaying dangerously close to his face. He didn't look up, just gripped her waist and pulled her down onto his lap in one rough motion. "Saali randi," he muttered, the words dark and affectionate as his calloused palm cupped her breast, thumb brushing her nipple.
Mamaji spat paan juice into a tin can, eyes glinting. "Bhai, thoda humein bhi de do." He reached out, tugging Ma's free arm until she stumbled toward him. The moment she was within reach, his fingers pinched her other nipple—hard. She yelped, but the sound melted into a giggle as she slapped his shoulder. "Montu bhai, itna bhi kya jaldi?"
Beer bottles clinked. The sharp tang of alcohol mixed with the greasy warmth of fried chicken. Fufaji's hand, now slick with oil, traced the curve of Ma's ass as she leaned over the table to refill his glass. "Anju, tera yeh gaon ka chicken..." He paused to bite into a piece, juices dripping down his wrist. "...yahi toh hai jo hum sabko yahin baitha deta hai."
Pa's grip tightened on Ma's hip, his other hand pushing her forward until her knees hit the floor between Fufaji's spread legs. "Sun lo iski," he said, voice rough. "Jijaji ko bhi serve kar."
The room smelled like sweat and spice and something heavier—something adult. My throat went dry. This wasn't new. The way their hands knew her body, the way she arched into their touches like a well-rehearsed dance. They'd done this before. Many times.
And Ma—she wasn't just allowing it.
She was *playing* along.
Ma's fingers curled around Fufaji's thick thigh, her nails digging slightly into his hairy skin as she knelt between his legs. His lungi had slipped open, revealing the damp, tangled nest of pubic hair beneath—his cock half-hard, resting against his thigh like a lazy predator. The bulb's flickering light caught the sweat beading on his stomach as he leaned back, fingers tangled in her hair. "Saali," he grunted, "itna time kyun leti hai?"
Ma's tongue darted out—pink, wet—licking a slow stripe from the base of his shaft to the tip. Not sucking. Just tasting. Teasing. Her nose wrinkled as the musky scent hit her. "Uff, Jijaji," she complained, breath warm against his skin, "nahana bhi hota hai kabhi?" Fufaji's belly shook with laughter, his free hand grabbing a chicken leg from the tray. "Tere muh se zyada saaf hai," he shot back, biting into the meat with a wet crunch.
Across the room, Pa watched silently, his own erection straining against his shorts. His fingers drummed against the armrest—a slow, controlled rhythm—but his gaze burned. Ma turned her head, catching his eye as she dragged her tongue along Fufaji's length again, this time swirling around the swollen head. "Sunil," she murmured, voice thick with mischief, "yeh log toh bilkual tayyar nahi hote."
Mamaji snorted, shifting on the sofa until his boxers tented obscenely. "Haan bhai," he drawled, spitting paan into the can, "hum sabka toh teri tarah roz ka dhula hua maal hai?" His hand stroked himself lazily through the fabric, the outline of his cock long and veiny. Ma crawled toward him, the curve of her ass swaying with each movement. The moment she reached him, she yanked his boxers down—his erection sprang free, smacking against his stomach with a wet sound. "Montu Bhai," she sighed, running a fingertip along the leaking slit, "yeh paan ki peek thook ke kaam karna bandh karo."
Mamaji's grin was all teeth. He grabbed her wrist, forcing her fingers around his shaft. "Aur tu," he said, thrusting into her grip, "hagna bandh kar."
Ma rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. Her palm worked him slowly, thumb smearing the slickness pooling at his tip. The sound was obscenely wet—like fingers kneading soaked dough. I could smell them from here: the sour tang of sweat mixed with stale paan, the musk of unwashed skin, the oily residue of fried chicken clinging to fingers. Ma wrinkled her nose again. "Bhai," she muttered, "ek baar soap se hath mila liya karo—"
Before she could finish, Pa's hand fisted in her hair, yanking her backward. His banyan rode up, exposing the thick thatch of hair on his stomach, his cock straining against the fabric of his shorts. Dark veins pulsed under the stretched cotton. "Anju," he said, voice low, "jab tak hum bolenge nahi, tab tak yeh bakchodi bandh rakh."
Ma gasped but didn't struggle. Her lips parted, tongue darting out instinctively as Pa tugged her closer. With his free hand, he shoved his shorts down—his erection sprang free, jutting upward, the swollen head glistening under the yellow light. Thick, dark, the foreskin pulled taut over the engorged tip. A bead of precum trembled at the slit.
"Saali," Pa growled, "chuss."
Ma's mouth closed around him with a wet pop. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard, the sound filthy and unmistakable. Pa's hips jerked, his grip tightening in her hair. Fufaji laughed, cracking open another beer. "Sunil," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "tera toh roz ka hai—hum logon ko bhi mauka do."
Ma pulled off with a gasp, Pa's cock glistening with her saliva. "Ji," she panted, wiping her chin, "pehle aap log khaana khatam karo na—"
Mamaji's hand clamped over her breast, squeezing roughly. "Humara khaana shuru ho gaya," he said, thumbing her nipple.
Ma moaned—a soft, involuntary sound—as she arched into his touch. Between her thighs, a slick sheen glistened. The room smelled like sex now, thick and heavy, mingling with the remnants of their meal. Pa's fingers traced the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Aaj toh hum sab poori raat khaana khayenge." His meaning was unmistakable.
Fufaji wiped his hands on his lungi, his breathing uneven as he lurched to his feet. His erection jutted obscenely, the tip flushed dark. Without warning, he grabbed Ma's wrist, tugging her toward the bed in the corner. "Chal, Anju," he growled, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Ab tere pet mein bhi daal denge kuch." She stumbled against him, her bare breasts pressing into his hairy chest, nipples hardening against the coarse hair.
The bed creaked as Fufaji shoved her onto the worn mattress, his lungi pooling at his ankles. Ma gasped as he climbed over her, his thick thighs straddling her hips, his calloused palms pinning her wrists above her head. "Pichle hafte se tera intezaar kar raha hoon," he muttered, grinding his rough pelvis against her damp heat. The mattress groaned beneath their combined weight. Pa watched from the sofa, his cock still glistening with Ma’s spit, fingers tightening around his beer bottle.
Fufaji didn’t wait—didn’t tease. He spat into his palm, slicking himself with a crude stroke before notching his cock against her entrance. Ma's breath hitched, her hips lifting instinctively. "Jijaji—" she started, but the words dissolved into a choked moan as he shoved inside, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Her back arched off the bed, her nails scraping at his hairy forearms.
The slap of skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic. Fufaji’s hips pistoned, his sweat dripping onto her heaving chest, his grunts mingling with her whimpers. "Kitni tight hai saali," he groaned, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Tujhe jitna bhi chod loon, maza kam nahi hota."
Ma’s laugh was breathless, her thighs trembling around him. "Aap log bhi na mera jishm noch leto ho," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his chest hair.
Pa chuckled darkly from across the room. "Ajj to tera haal aur bhi kharab kar denga," he warned, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the head of his cock. "Aaj poori raat tere saath jo marzi karenge."
Mamaji leaned forward, his grin filthy as he spat another stream of paan juice into the can. "Anju," he called, his voice dripping with amusement, "Fufaji ke baad hum dono ka bhi line lagega."
Ma whimpered—whether in protest or anticipation, I couldn’t tell—as Fufaji’s thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The bedframe rattled against the wall, each slam punctuated by a wet slap. "Saali," he panted, his fingers digging into her flesh, "abhi toh shuru hua hai…"
And it had.
The night stretched ahead, thick with promise, heavy with sweat, and soaked in something far darker than the shadows clinging to the walls.
Pa rose from the sofa in one fluid motion, his banyan riding up to expose the wiry trail of hair leading down to his cock—still glistening from Ma’s mouth, still twitching with need. He stalked toward the bed with the quiet intent of a predator circling prey. Fufaji noticed him approach and slowed his thrusts, grinding deep into Ma with a smirk. "Sunil," he panted, "tere bina toh teri biwi ka maza adhura rehta hai."
Ma whimpered beneath him, her sweat-slick body arching as Pa climbed onto the creaking bed. The wooden frame groaned under his weight as he positioned himself above her head—his bare, calloused feet framing her face on either side. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he lowered his right foot, pressing the sole against her cheekbone with deliberate roughness. "Anju," he rumbled, his voice thick with dark amusement, "Fufaji ka lund chusne se pehle, mere pair dhulne chahiye the na?"
The pressure made her squirm, her lips parting against the dirt-streaked sole. Fufaji chuckled, snapping his hips harder—the wet squelch of their joining drowning out her muffled protest. "Sunil sahab ka order hai," he taunted, gripping her breasts roughly. "Chaat le apne pati ke pairon ko, randi." Ma's tongue darted out, kitten-licks at first, tracing the rough ridges of Pa's foot. He pressed down harder, grinding his heel against her mouth until her lips stretched obscenely around it. "Aise nahi," he growled, suddenly pulling his foot away to slap it against her swollen nipples. "Puri tarah se chaat—jis tarah Fufaji tujhe chod raha hai."
Mamaji's laughter cut through the sticky air as he palmed himself through his boxers. "Arre Bhai," he called, spitting paan juice into the tin with a wet plink, "Anju ajj puri raat tu sabko chaat ke saaf karegi" Pa's gaze never left Ma's face as she took his big toe into her mouth, sucking with wet, desperate pulls. "Maze se chaat," he muttered, twisting his toes deeper into her throat until her eyes watered. Fufaji's thrusts turned jagged, his balls slapping against her ass in a frantic rhythm. "Saali ke muh se zyada," he grunted, "iska chut ka swaad accha hai—"
The sentence ended in a guttural groan as he slammed home one last time, his release painting her insides in thick pulses. Ma's moan vibrated around Pa's foot, her thighs trembling as Fufaji collapsed onto her, his sweaty chest smearing against her nipples. Pa finally lifted his foot, trailing saliva and dirt across her flushed face. "Ab uth," he ordered, yanking her hair until her lips hovered over his leaking cock.
Fufaji rolled off with a satisfied grunt, his softening length glistening between Ma's spread thighs. The metallic scent of sex mixed with spilled beer as Pa positioned himself behind her, his calloused hands spreading her cheeks wide. "Kitni geeli ho gayi hai," he muttered, rubbing his thick tip through her slick folds. Ma gasped into his shaft, her tongue darting out instinctively when Pa smacked her ass hard enough to leave a red print. "Haath peeche kar," he growled.
She obeyed instantly, reaching back to spread herself wider—an offering. The first thrust punched the breath from her lungs. "Aaaa—Ji!" Ma's cry dissolved into choked gagging as Pa fucked forward in one brutal motion, his balls slapping against her clit with each piston of his hips. The bedframe screeched in protest as he set a punishing pace, his grip on her waist tight enough to leave bruises. "Yeh...randi...ko...bas...aise...hi...chhodna...padega," he grunted between thrusts, the veins on his temple standing out.
Fufaji chuckled from the sofa where he was lighting a beedi, his spent cock resting on his thigh. "Sunil," he exhaled smoke, "teri biwi ki chut mein hum sabka maal milke ek naya dal banaega." Pa's only response was a dark laugh as he dragged Ma up by her hair, her back arching painfully against his chest. She whimpered when his fingers found her clit, rubbing rough circles that matched his relentless rhythm. "Ji...mujhe...jor se...chodo..." she panted, her nails scraping at his hairy thighs.
The slap echoed before she finished speaking—Pa's palm connecting with her cheek hard enough to whip her head sideways. "Tere muh se sirf hamare lund ki awaz nikalni chahiye," he hissed, shoving her face-first into the mattress. Her ass jiggled with each slam, the swollen lips of her pussy stretched obscenely around his girth.
Mamaji's shadow loomed over them, his grin sharp as a blade. He grabbed Ma's hair, yanking her head up until her lips parted—just in time for him to thrust his cock past her teeth. She gagged instantly, saliva dripping down her chin as he bottomed out with a groan. "Arre Anju," he taunted, pistoning shallowly, "itna bhi bada nahi hai jo tu ghutne lag rahi hai."
Pa's thrusts grew rougher, his balls slapping against Ma's clit with every snap of his hips. The bed shook violently, the headboard smacking the wall in time with Mamaji's shallow grinds into her throat. Ma's whimpers were muffled, her nostrils flaring as she struggled to breathe around the thick intrusion. Pa grabbed her hips, pulling her back onto him with a wet slap. "Saali ko dono taraf se bhari padi hai," he growled, his voice dripping with dark pride.
Mamaji chuckled, spitting a stream of paan juice onto Ma's back as he gripped her hair tighter. "Anju, tera muh toh abhi fresh hua hai—le, thoda aur khol," he taunted, pushing his veiny cock deeper until her throat bulged visibly. Ma's gagging sounds filled the room, her saliva dripping onto the stained bedsheet as she struggled to accommodate his length. Pa didn't slow his brutal pace, his hairy thighs slapping against her ass with rhythmic force. "Saali ko ghanto tak aise hi chodna chahiye," he grunted, one calloused hand smacking her reddened cheek.
The cheap ceiling fan doing little to cut through the stifling heat. Mamaji adjusted his stance, widening his legs to thrust downward at a sharper angle. "Ab naak se saans le," he instructed cruelly, his balls slapping against her chin. Ma's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, her eyes watering when he began fucking her face in earnest—short, sharp jabs that made her nose press into his sweaty pubes with each forward snap. "Aaa... Ji... nahi..." she tried to protest around the intrusion, but the words dissolved into wet gurgles.
Pa's hips stuttered against her ass, his rhythm turning erratic. "Randi... abhi... nikla..." he growled, yanking her hair back so hard her spine arched. Mamaji took advantage, shoving deeper just as thick ropes of cum shot down Ma's throat. Her body jerked violently—whether from Pa's climax or the sudden flood hitting her gag reflex—but Mamaji held firm, grinding against her lips as he emptied himself. "Poori le," he grunted, fingers twisting in her hair. "Warna tera pati tujhe saari raat chod ke chhodega." She swallowed convulsively, throat working around each pulse, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.
Fufaji chuckled from the sofa where he nursed another beer, watching Ma's throat bulge with each forced swallow. "Montu," he called, scratching his hairy chest, "tera maal pite waqt teri bahin ka chehra dekh—lagta hai koi zahar pila raha hai." Mamaji pulled out with a wet pop, his softening cock glistening with spit and remnants of cum. He wiped it carelessly across Ma's forehead, smearing the mess into her skin. "Arre Jijaji," he grinned, "yeh toh roz ka hai—aajkal hum dono milkar isko din mein do baar pila dete hain."
Ma collapsed forward onto the sweat-stained sheets, coughing weakly as ropes of thick white dribbled from her swollen lips. Pa patted her ass—almost affectionately—before rolling off with a satisfied groan, his softening cock glistening with her juices. Mamaji wiped himself on her tangled hair before joining the others at the sofa, where Fufaji was already pouring fresh drinks. The contrast between them and Ma was almost laughable—three dark, hairy men slumped on the torn upholstery, their bodies rugged and coarse like sun-baked earth, while Ma’s soft curves lay sprawled across the bed like spilled milk.
The land held two houses. The new one stood in front, half-finished, smelling of fresh cement and dust. The old house lay at the back, broken and tired, its rooms partly open to the sky. Though it was damaged, it felt private—cut off from the front. From where we lived, no sound from the old house could be heard. Once someone went there, they disappeared into silence.
Because of the construction, our family lived divided between the two spaces.
I stayed in one small room of the new house with my grandmother. She was very old and bedridden. Her world had shrunk to that bed—medicines on a stool, a steel glass near her hand, her breathing slow and uneven. At night, the room felt heavy with stillness.
My parents stayed in the old house at the back.
My father, Sunil, was around forty-five—tall, dark, solidly built, his body carrying the weight of years of work. He wasn’t a talkative man. His presence was steady, firm, like something that didn’t move unless it had to.
My mother, Anju, was around thirty-five. She had a healthy, well-formed figure and a soft, open face. She moved with ease, never stiff or guarded, dressing simply but with care. She talked easily, laughed often, and had a way of making people feel welcome without trying. In a small town like ours, that mattered. People trusted her, felt comfortable around her. She stood around 5’4”, her body softly curved and proportionate, shaped by routine rather than restraint. Her figure held a natural fullness—a rounded bust that sat heavy against her chest, filling her blouses comfortably, a gentle curve at the waist, and broad, womanly hips that gave her silhouette a quiet sensuality. Her measurements fell somewhere near 38–30–38, not precise, not sharp, but pleasing in their balance.
That day stood out.
The car was secondhand, a white Maruti 800 with rust chewing at the wheel wells. But when Baba rolled it into the lane that evening, gripping the steering wheel like it was a bull he’d tamed, our neighbors spilled out of their homes. Children pressed sticky fingers against the windows while men circled it, nodding at the dents as if they were battle scars. Women clustered near the gate, their saris fluttering like restless birds.
My father said little, but his posture gave him away. My mother stayed near the gate, answering questions, smiling, brushing off comments as if this attention was just another part of the day.
By evening, the house settled into its usual pattern.
Fufaji came up to the gate like he always did, wiping sweat from his neck. He clapped Baba on the shoulder and laughed.
“Arre Sunil, gaadi le hi li!”
Then, nodding toward the driver’s seat, he added,
“Ab driver bhi rakhna padega… ya Anju ko bhi chalani aati hai?”
Ma shook her head and flicked the edge of her sari at him, smiling.
“Bas bhi kijiye, Jijaji. Kuch bhi bol dete hain.”
Mamaji arrived a little later, slow and relaxed. The smell of paan came with him. He leaned against the car, spat to the side, and looked it over carefully.
“Badiya hai,” he said.
Then, half-smiling, “Lambi drive ke liye bhi… aur chhoti ke liye bhi.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Baba gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind he didn’t usually give.
Something about it made my neck feel strange.
That night, as usual, both of them stayed over.
As it always happened, my parents, Fufaji, and Mamaji settled into the old house at the back. The front quieted down. Lights glowed briefly and then dimmed.
The old house swallowed them in its silence.
From the new house, nothing could be heard.
I went to sleep beside my grandmother. The room was still, untouched by whatever was happening behind.
Sometime later, I woke up.
I needed to pee.
Careful not to disturb her, I slipped out of the room. The night air felt cool against my skin. A single weak bulb near the back cast long shadows over broken walls and open spaces.
The toilet was near the old house.
As I walked past the broken wall, half-asleep, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness—
I suddenly saw something.
I stopped.
My body went completely still, knowing I had seen something I was never meant to see. The dim yellow bulb flickered weakly, casting uneven light across the cracked courtyard. Ma emerged from the kitchen, her bare skin glowing faintly—full, heavy breasts swaying gently with each step, nipples dark against her chest. She carried a steel tray piled with golden-brown chicken fry, the smell of spices and hot oil cutting through the night air. Her hips rolled slightly as she walked, the curve of her waist dipping into the soft swell of her stomach before flaring out again. She didn’t hurry. Didn’t try to cover herself.
I should’ve turned away. But my feet moved forward on their own, drawn toward the gaping hole in the back wall where the mud bricks had crumbled. My pulse hammered as I crouched, pressing against the rough surface, my fingers digging into the dirt. The peephole gave a clear view of the dimly lit room—Fufaji sprawled across the sofa, his hairy chest rising and falling with laughter, Mamaji leaning forward with that lazy grin, Pa sitting upright in his usual quiet dominance. And Ma—completely bare, skin gleaming with sweat—placing the tray between them.
"Arre, Anju," Fufaji chuckled, his thick fingers already reaching for a drumstick. "Ek plate mein toh hum sabka naam aata hai." His other hand slid up her thigh, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
Ma swatted him away, but her laughter was breathless. "Jijaji, pehle khao na... haath dhoye bina nahi?" She bent to serve Pa, her breasts swaying dangerously close to his face. He didn't look up, just gripped her waist and pulled her down onto his lap in one rough motion. "Saali randi," he muttered, the words dark and affectionate as his calloused palm cupped her breast, thumb brushing her nipple.
Mamaji spat paan juice into a tin can, eyes glinting. "Bhai, thoda humein bhi de do." He reached out, tugging Ma's free arm until she stumbled toward him. The moment she was within reach, his fingers pinched her other nipple—hard. She yelped, but the sound melted into a giggle as she slapped his shoulder. "Montu bhai, itna bhi kya jaldi?"
Beer bottles clinked. The sharp tang of alcohol mixed with the greasy warmth of fried chicken. Fufaji's hand, now slick with oil, traced the curve of Ma's ass as she leaned over the table to refill his glass. "Anju, tera yeh gaon ka chicken..." He paused to bite into a piece, juices dripping down his wrist. "...yahi toh hai jo hum sabko yahin baitha deta hai."
Pa's grip tightened on Ma's hip, his other hand pushing her forward until her knees hit the floor between Fufaji's spread legs. "Sun lo iski," he said, voice rough. "Jijaji ko bhi serve kar."
The room smelled like sweat and spice and something heavier—something adult. My throat went dry. This wasn't new. The way their hands knew her body, the way she arched into their touches like a well-rehearsed dance. They'd done this before. Many times.
And Ma—she wasn't just allowing it.
She was *playing* along.
Ma's fingers curled around Fufaji's thick thigh, her nails digging slightly into his hairy skin as she knelt between his legs. His lungi had slipped open, revealing the damp, tangled nest of pubic hair beneath—his cock half-hard, resting against his thigh like a lazy predator. The bulb's flickering light caught the sweat beading on his stomach as he leaned back, fingers tangled in her hair. "Saali," he grunted, "itna time kyun leti hai?"
Ma's tongue darted out—pink, wet—licking a slow stripe from the base of his shaft to the tip. Not sucking. Just tasting. Teasing. Her nose wrinkled as the musky scent hit her. "Uff, Jijaji," she complained, breath warm against his skin, "nahana bhi hota hai kabhi?" Fufaji's belly shook with laughter, his free hand grabbing a chicken leg from the tray. "Tere muh se zyada saaf hai," he shot back, biting into the meat with a wet crunch.
Across the room, Pa watched silently, his own erection straining against his shorts. His fingers drummed against the armrest—a slow, controlled rhythm—but his gaze burned. Ma turned her head, catching his eye as she dragged her tongue along Fufaji's length again, this time swirling around the swollen head. "Sunil," she murmured, voice thick with mischief, "yeh log toh bilkual tayyar nahi hote."
Mamaji snorted, shifting on the sofa until his boxers tented obscenely. "Haan bhai," he drawled, spitting paan into the can, "hum sabka toh teri tarah roz ka dhula hua maal hai?" His hand stroked himself lazily through the fabric, the outline of his cock long and veiny. Ma crawled toward him, the curve of her ass swaying with each movement. The moment she reached him, she yanked his boxers down—his erection sprang free, smacking against his stomach with a wet sound. "Montu Bhai," she sighed, running a fingertip along the leaking slit, "yeh paan ki peek thook ke kaam karna bandh karo."
Mamaji's grin was all teeth. He grabbed her wrist, forcing her fingers around his shaft. "Aur tu," he said, thrusting into her grip, "hagna bandh kar."
Ma rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. Her palm worked him slowly, thumb smearing the slickness pooling at his tip. The sound was obscenely wet—like fingers kneading soaked dough. I could smell them from here: the sour tang of sweat mixed with stale paan, the musk of unwashed skin, the oily residue of fried chicken clinging to fingers. Ma wrinkled her nose again. "Bhai," she muttered, "ek baar soap se hath mila liya karo—"
Before she could finish, Pa's hand fisted in her hair, yanking her backward. His banyan rode up, exposing the thick thatch of hair on his stomach, his cock straining against the fabric of his shorts. Dark veins pulsed under the stretched cotton. "Anju," he said, voice low, "jab tak hum bolenge nahi, tab tak yeh bakchodi bandh rakh."
Ma gasped but didn't struggle. Her lips parted, tongue darting out instinctively as Pa tugged her closer. With his free hand, he shoved his shorts down—his erection sprang free, jutting upward, the swollen head glistening under the yellow light. Thick, dark, the foreskin pulled taut over the engorged tip. A bead of precum trembled at the slit.
"Saali," Pa growled, "chuss."
Ma's mouth closed around him with a wet pop. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard, the sound filthy and unmistakable. Pa's hips jerked, his grip tightening in her hair. Fufaji laughed, cracking open another beer. "Sunil," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "tera toh roz ka hai—hum logon ko bhi mauka do."
Ma pulled off with a gasp, Pa's cock glistening with her saliva. "Ji," she panted, wiping her chin, "pehle aap log khaana khatam karo na—"
Mamaji's hand clamped over her breast, squeezing roughly. "Humara khaana shuru ho gaya," he said, thumbing her nipple.
Ma moaned—a soft, involuntary sound—as she arched into his touch. Between her thighs, a slick sheen glistened. The room smelled like sex now, thick and heavy, mingling with the remnants of their meal. Pa's fingers traced the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Aaj toh hum sab poori raat khaana khayenge." His meaning was unmistakable.
Fufaji wiped his hands on his lungi, his breathing uneven as he lurched to his feet. His erection jutted obscenely, the tip flushed dark. Without warning, he grabbed Ma's wrist, tugging her toward the bed in the corner. "Chal, Anju," he growled, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Ab tere pet mein bhi daal denge kuch." She stumbled against him, her bare breasts pressing into his hairy chest, nipples hardening against the coarse hair.
The bed creaked as Fufaji shoved her onto the worn mattress, his lungi pooling at his ankles. Ma gasped as he climbed over her, his thick thighs straddling her hips, his calloused palms pinning her wrists above her head. "Pichle hafte se tera intezaar kar raha hoon," he muttered, grinding his rough pelvis against her damp heat. The mattress groaned beneath their combined weight. Pa watched from the sofa, his cock still glistening with Ma’s spit, fingers tightening around his beer bottle.
Fufaji didn’t wait—didn’t tease. He spat into his palm, slicking himself with a crude stroke before notching his cock against her entrance. Ma's breath hitched, her hips lifting instinctively. "Jijaji—" she started, but the words dissolved into a choked moan as he shoved inside, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Her back arched off the bed, her nails scraping at his hairy forearms.
The slap of skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic. Fufaji’s hips pistoned, his sweat dripping onto her heaving chest, his grunts mingling with her whimpers. "Kitni tight hai saali," he groaned, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Tujhe jitna bhi chod loon, maza kam nahi hota."
Ma’s laugh was breathless, her thighs trembling around him. "Aap log bhi na mera jishm noch leto ho," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his chest hair.
Pa chuckled darkly from across the room. "Ajj to tera haal aur bhi kharab kar denga," he warned, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the head of his cock. "Aaj poori raat tere saath jo marzi karenge."
Mamaji leaned forward, his grin filthy as he spat another stream of paan juice into the can. "Anju," he called, his voice dripping with amusement, "Fufaji ke baad hum dono ka bhi line lagega."
Ma whimpered—whether in protest or anticipation, I couldn’t tell—as Fufaji’s thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The bedframe rattled against the wall, each slam punctuated by a wet slap. "Saali," he panted, his fingers digging into her flesh, "abhi toh shuru hua hai…"
And it had.
The night stretched ahead, thick with promise, heavy with sweat, and soaked in something far darker than the shadows clinging to the walls.
Pa rose from the sofa in one fluid motion, his banyan riding up to expose the wiry trail of hair leading down to his cock—still glistening from Ma’s mouth, still twitching with need. He stalked toward the bed with the quiet intent of a predator circling prey. Fufaji noticed him approach and slowed his thrusts, grinding deep into Ma with a smirk. "Sunil," he panted, "tere bina toh teri biwi ka maza adhura rehta hai."
Ma whimpered beneath him, her sweat-slick body arching as Pa climbed onto the creaking bed. The wooden frame groaned under his weight as he positioned himself above her head—his bare, calloused feet framing her face on either side. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he lowered his right foot, pressing the sole against her cheekbone with deliberate roughness. "Anju," he rumbled, his voice thick with dark amusement, "Fufaji ka lund chusne se pehle, mere pair dhulne chahiye the na?"
The pressure made her squirm, her lips parting against the dirt-streaked sole. Fufaji chuckled, snapping his hips harder—the wet squelch of their joining drowning out her muffled protest. "Sunil sahab ka order hai," he taunted, gripping her breasts roughly. "Chaat le apne pati ke pairon ko, randi." Ma's tongue darted out, kitten-licks at first, tracing the rough ridges of Pa's foot. He pressed down harder, grinding his heel against her mouth until her lips stretched obscenely around it. "Aise nahi," he growled, suddenly pulling his foot away to slap it against her swollen nipples. "Puri tarah se chaat—jis tarah Fufaji tujhe chod raha hai."
Mamaji's laughter cut through the sticky air as he palmed himself through his boxers. "Arre Bhai," he called, spitting paan juice into the tin with a wet plink, "Anju ajj puri raat tu sabko chaat ke saaf karegi" Pa's gaze never left Ma's face as she took his big toe into her mouth, sucking with wet, desperate pulls. "Maze se chaat," he muttered, twisting his toes deeper into her throat until her eyes watered. Fufaji's thrusts turned jagged, his balls slapping against her ass in a frantic rhythm. "Saali ke muh se zyada," he grunted, "iska chut ka swaad accha hai—"
The sentence ended in a guttural groan as he slammed home one last time, his release painting her insides in thick pulses. Ma's moan vibrated around Pa's foot, her thighs trembling as Fufaji collapsed onto her, his sweaty chest smearing against her nipples. Pa finally lifted his foot, trailing saliva and dirt across her flushed face. "Ab uth," he ordered, yanking her hair until her lips hovered over his leaking cock.
Fufaji rolled off with a satisfied grunt, his softening length glistening between Ma's spread thighs. The metallic scent of sex mixed with spilled beer as Pa positioned himself behind her, his calloused hands spreading her cheeks wide. "Kitni geeli ho gayi hai," he muttered, rubbing his thick tip through her slick folds. Ma gasped into his shaft, her tongue darting out instinctively when Pa smacked her ass hard enough to leave a red print. "Haath peeche kar," he growled.
She obeyed instantly, reaching back to spread herself wider—an offering. The first thrust punched the breath from her lungs. "Aaaa—Ji!" Ma's cry dissolved into choked gagging as Pa fucked forward in one brutal motion, his balls slapping against her clit with each piston of his hips. The bedframe screeched in protest as he set a punishing pace, his grip on her waist tight enough to leave bruises. "Yeh...randi...ko...bas...aise...hi...chhodna...padega," he grunted between thrusts, the veins on his temple standing out.
Fufaji chuckled from the sofa where he was lighting a beedi, his spent cock resting on his thigh. "Sunil," he exhaled smoke, "teri biwi ki chut mein hum sabka maal milke ek naya dal banaega." Pa's only response was a dark laugh as he dragged Ma up by her hair, her back arching painfully against his chest. She whimpered when his fingers found her clit, rubbing rough circles that matched his relentless rhythm. "Ji...mujhe...jor se...chodo..." she panted, her nails scraping at his hairy thighs.
The slap echoed before she finished speaking—Pa's palm connecting with her cheek hard enough to whip her head sideways. "Tere muh se sirf hamare lund ki awaz nikalni chahiye," he hissed, shoving her face-first into the mattress. Her ass jiggled with each slam, the swollen lips of her pussy stretched obscenely around his girth.
Mamaji's shadow loomed over them, his grin sharp as a blade. He grabbed Ma's hair, yanking her head up until her lips parted—just in time for him to thrust his cock past her teeth. She gagged instantly, saliva dripping down her chin as he bottomed out with a groan. "Arre Anju," he taunted, pistoning shallowly, "itna bhi bada nahi hai jo tu ghutne lag rahi hai."
Pa's thrusts grew rougher, his balls slapping against Ma's clit with every snap of his hips. The bed shook violently, the headboard smacking the wall in time with Mamaji's shallow grinds into her throat. Ma's whimpers were muffled, her nostrils flaring as she struggled to breathe around the thick intrusion. Pa grabbed her hips, pulling her back onto him with a wet slap. "Saali ko dono taraf se bhari padi hai," he growled, his voice dripping with dark pride.
Mamaji chuckled, spitting a stream of paan juice onto Ma's back as he gripped her hair tighter. "Anju, tera muh toh abhi fresh hua hai—le, thoda aur khol," he taunted, pushing his veiny cock deeper until her throat bulged visibly. Ma's gagging sounds filled the room, her saliva dripping onto the stained bedsheet as she struggled to accommodate his length. Pa didn't slow his brutal pace, his hairy thighs slapping against her ass with rhythmic force. "Saali ko ghanto tak aise hi chodna chahiye," he grunted, one calloused hand smacking her reddened cheek.
The cheap ceiling fan doing little to cut through the stifling heat. Mamaji adjusted his stance, widening his legs to thrust downward at a sharper angle. "Ab naak se saans le," he instructed cruelly, his balls slapping against her chin. Ma's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, her eyes watering when he began fucking her face in earnest—short, sharp jabs that made her nose press into his sweaty pubes with each forward snap. "Aaa... Ji... nahi..." she tried to protest around the intrusion, but the words dissolved into wet gurgles.
Pa's hips stuttered against her ass, his rhythm turning erratic. "Randi... abhi... nikla..." he growled, yanking her hair back so hard her spine arched. Mamaji took advantage, shoving deeper just as thick ropes of cum shot down Ma's throat. Her body jerked violently—whether from Pa's climax or the sudden flood hitting her gag reflex—but Mamaji held firm, grinding against her lips as he emptied himself. "Poori le," he grunted, fingers twisting in her hair. "Warna tera pati tujhe saari raat chod ke chhodega." She swallowed convulsively, throat working around each pulse, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.
Fufaji chuckled from the sofa where he nursed another beer, watching Ma's throat bulge with each forced swallow. "Montu," he called, scratching his hairy chest, "tera maal pite waqt teri bahin ka chehra dekh—lagta hai koi zahar pila raha hai." Mamaji pulled out with a wet pop, his softening cock glistening with spit and remnants of cum. He wiped it carelessly across Ma's forehead, smearing the mess into her skin. "Arre Jijaji," he grinned, "yeh toh roz ka hai—aajkal hum dono milkar isko din mein do baar pila dete hain."
Ma collapsed forward onto the sweat-stained sheets, coughing weakly as ropes of thick white dribbled from her swollen lips. Pa patted her ass—almost affectionately—before rolling off with a satisfied groan, his softening cock glistening with her juices. Mamaji wiped himself on her tangled hair before joining the others at the sofa, where Fufaji was already pouring fresh drinks. The contrast between them and Ma was almost laughable—three dark, hairy men slumped on the torn upholstery, their bodies rugged and coarse like sun-baked earth, while Ma’s soft curves lay sprawled across the bed like spilled milk.