I let my husband's younger brother fuck me
Last month my husband left for a two-week project in Bangalore. The first few days were normal. I cooked, I cleaned, I wore my usual cotton sarees and went about my day. But every evening when I’d come out of the bathroom after my shower, wrapped in just a towel, I’d catch his brother staring. Not in a creepy way — in that hungry, can’t-look-away way. I knew I should have covered up more. I didn’t.
On the sixth night the power went out around 11 pm. The whole neighbourhood was dark. I was in the kitchen getting water when he walked in wearing only his loose lungi, chest bare, skin still glistening from the heat. We bumped into each other in the narrow passage between the fridge and the counter. My thin nightie clung to my body from the sweat.
“Sorry,” he whispered, but he didn’t move back. His hand brushed my waist to steady me. That one touch sent electricity straight between my legs. I should have stepped away. Instead I looked up at him in the faint moonlight coming through the window.
We stood like that for maybe ten seconds. Then he kissed me.
It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, months of stolen glances finally breaking. His tongue pushed into my mouth while his hands grabbed my ass through the nightie. I moaned into his kiss like a slut who hadn’t been properly fucked in months — which was true. My husband is gentle and quick. His brother was anything but.
He lifted me onto the kitchen counter like I weighed nothing. My nightie rode up to my hips. He pulled the thin straps down so my breasts spilled out. His mouth was on them instantly, sucking hard, biting just enough to make me gasp. I was already soaking. When he slid two thick fingers inside me I came right there, biting his shoulder to stay quiet.
“Please…” I begged. I didn’t even know what I was begging for.
He didn’t make me wait. He pushed his lungi down and his cock sprang out — thick, heavy, veined, already leaking. Much bigger than my husband’s. He rubbed the head up and down my wet pussy, teasing me until I was whimpering.
Then he thrust in hard in one stroke.
I almost screamed. He filled me so completely I felt it in my stomach. He fucked me right there on the kitchen counter, deep and rough, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the silent house. Every thrust made my tits bounce. He kept one hand over my mouth to keep me quiet and the other gripping my hip so hard I knew I’d have bruises.
“Been wanting this tight pussy for so long,” he growled against my ear. Hearing those dirty words in English from him made me cum again, clenching around his cock.
He didn’t pull out. He fucked me through my orgasm, faster, until his own hips stuttered. “I’m going to cum inside you,” he warned.
I nodded frantically. I wanted it. Needed it.
He buried himself to the hilt and unloaded. Thick, hot spurts flooded me. I felt every pulse. When he finally pulled out, his cum dripped down my thighs onto the kitchen floor.
We didn’t speak after that. He just kissed me softly once, helped me down, and went back to his room. I cleaned up in the dark, legs shaking, his cum still leaking out of me.
He fucked me six more times before my husband came back — in my bedroom while everyone slept, in the bathroom during afternoon showers, even once in the storeroom while my mother-in-law was cooking dinner just ten feet away.
I know it’s wrong. I know I’m a terrible wife.
But every time I see my husband now, all I can think about is how much better his younger brother feels inside me.