Hello, readers. Welcome back to dive into a real story that’ll leave you aching! I’m Faizal, 28, a gym-junkie corporate slave from Mumbai. This isn’t some fantasy. This shit went down in February 2024. I locked eyes with Bharti, a 38-year-old divorced MILF, at my cousin’s wedding bash in Nagpur.
Let me describe Bharti for you: a total bombshell, curves carved from the daily grind at the gym. Rocking a 36-30-38 frame. Full, heavy tits, hips that screamed to be grabbed. She had a vibe that said she’d fuck like a wildcat let loose.
Here’s how it unfolded in Nagpur. On February 25, 2024, our crew landed in the afternoon. We’d booked a hotel close to the marriage hall, but the bride’s place was a solid 45-minute haul. After crashing at the hotel to shake off the flight, the evening plan was set.
Five of us, including me, were slated to roll up to the bride’s house for some meet-and-greet bullshit and dinner. We pulled up, and there she was, Bharti, the bride’s older sister, standing out front like a goddamn siren. She was draped in a saree that hugged every curve tight.
You could see the outline of her thick ass and the dip of her waist. Her skin glowed, half-exposed, begging to be touched. My cock twitched the second I saw her. In my head, I was already stripping her down, pinning her under me. But I played it cool, waiting for the right moment to strike.
She greeted the others first, all smiles and polite nonsense, then sauntered over to me. I flashed a grin, eyeing her like prey. “What’s your name, Miss Gorgeous?” I asked.
“I’m Bharti, the bride’s sister,” she replied, her voice dripping with something dirty. “Bharti, you’re a damn knockout,” I shot back, not even hiding the lust in my tone. She smirked, a flicker of heat in her eyes and waved me inside. The whole time, I was a predator stalking her through the chaos of the function.
She was busy playing hostess, but I caught her noticing me. Those stolen glances when she thought I wasn’t looking. Every time she bent over, that saree pulled tight, flashing a deep, creamy cleavage that made my blood boil. I swear she started doing it on purpose, teasing me, daring me to snap.
My jeans were getting tight, and I wasn’t subtle about staring anymore. Then the twist hit. Late into the night, after dinner, I slipped outside for a smoke, needing air to cool the fire she’d lit in me. She followed along. No words, just her hips swaying as she stepped into the shadows near the garden.
“You’ve been eye-fucking me all the time, Faizal,” she said, cutting through the dark. I tossed the cigarette, closing the gap fast. “And you’ve been begging for it,” I rasped, grabbing her waist and yanking her against me. Her lips crashed into mine, hot and sloppy, all teeth and tongue, a kiss that tasted like sin.
She moaned into my mouth, clawing at my back. I shoved her against the wall, the saree bunching up as my hands roamed her curves. Her boobies pressed into my chest, heavy and soft. I could feel her thighs trembling as I ground against her.
It was quick, dirty sex like a storm breaking loose. I hiked her saree up, her nails digging into my shoulders as I took her right there, no mercy. She was loud, gasping my name, her body shuddering under me. But when it was over, reality crept in.
She pushed me off, breathing hard. A single tear streaked down her cheek, guilt, maybe, or something deeper. I grabbed her face and kissed her again before disappearing back into the house. I stood there, still tasting her on my lips. Her tear burned into my mind, a wild, fucked-up memory I’d carry forever.
After our dirty little garden fuck the night before, we slunk back into the bride’s house like nothing happened. It was past midnight when my crew piled into the car to head back to the hotel. Before we split, I grabbed her number, and on the ride, my phone lit up with her filth.
She sent a cleavage shot, those milky jugs spilling out of her blouse teasing me till my dick was throbbing. I fired back, “Bharti, I’m gonna fuck you tomorrow.” She hit me with, “Can’t wait, Faizal. That kiss left me dripping.”
Then—bam—a pic of her soaked pussy, cum glistening. We sexted all night, swapping nudes, my cock hard as steel imagining her choking on it.
February 26, 2024, wedding day. The function kicked off at 6:00 PM, but I was feral for her by noon. We started chatting again. “I need you raw, skin on skin,” she typed, voice dripping through the screen. “Get here fast, Bharti, my dick’s gonna rip you apart,” I shot back.
The day dragged, guests trickling into the hall. Then she appeared, backless saree, slutty as hell, her thick curves swaying like a fuck-me invitation. I was rock-hard instantly. The function buzzed with chaos, but I didn’t give a shit. I texted her, “Hotel lobby, now.”
I’d booked a separate room, our private fuck den. She strutted in minutes later, hips rolling, ass bouncing under that saree. I trailed her to the room, drooling over the view, my hands itching to spank her silly. The door opened, and we pounced, lips smashing together, tongues warring, her moaning my name.
“Faizal, fuck me like the world’s ending,” she growled between kisses.
I hoisted her up and slammed her onto the bed. I ripped that saree off as it offended me. My mouth attacked her face and neck, cleavage biting, sucking, leaving marks.
We locked lips for a solid 15 minutes, sloppy and savage. She tore my sherwani off, licking my chest, sinking her teeth into my nipple like a starved bitch. I yanked her blouse away, diving into those massive, milky boobs, sucking her nipples till she screamed my name.
I squeezed them hard—too hard. She yelped, but her eyes begged for more. She dropped to her knees, clawing my pyjama off, my cock springing free, thick and ready to destroy her. She didn’t hesitate, swallowed me whole, a pro at sucking dick, gagging as it hit her throat. “Get in 69 position,” I ordered.
She shed the rest of her saree, petticoat, and panties and tossed them like trash. I laid back. She climbed on, her wet cunt hovering over my face. I ate her out like a madman, tongue-fucking her juicy pussy while she deep-throated me. Her lips were fire, her cum flooding my mouth.
I devoured her for 25 minutes straight. I flipped her over, grabbed her waist, and forced her into doggy. That ass—fuck—jutting up, begging for it. I spanked her hard, leaving red handprints, then rammed my cock into her dripping hole. She screamed, loud and raw.
I didn’t stop pounding her from behind, spanking her till her ass glowed. Her moans drove me insane, my thrusts relentless. Her cum coating my dick after 15 minutes of brutal fucking. I pulled out, laid back, and growled, “Ride me, Bharti—bounce on it like a slut.”
She straddled me, slamming her pussy down, riding me hard—front, back, sideways, boobs jiggling like a porno. I latched onto her nipples, sucking as she moaned louder, licking my face like a bitch in heat. When she slowed, I shoved her onto her back, missionary-style, pillow under her hips, legs spread wide.
I rubbed my cock against her slit, teasing her lust-drunk eyes. I then bit her lip and plunged in deep. Mid-fuck, her phone rang some relative. “Pause,” she gasped. Fuck that. I snatched it, hung up, and tossed it across the room. Gripping her neck, I kissed her hard, hammering her pussy faster.
She clawed at me, a tear slipping down her cheek—pleasure, shame, who knows? After 20 minutes, I felt the build-up. I yanked her hair, sat her up, and exploded—cum blasting across her face and boobs. She opened her mouth, and I fucked it, unloading the rest deep down her throat.
We collapsed, panting. My phone showed six missed calls; hers had four. We scrambled, dressed, and bolted back to the function, reeking of sex. Now, every Nagpur trip, we fuck anyway.
If you enjoyed this and got your blood pumping, spread the word—share it with your horny female buddies who’d get off on it too. Wanna talk shit, give feedback, or drool over the details?
Hit me up on Google Chat at [email protected]. I’m always down to shoot the breeze or hook up in person if you’re close.