Hello, dear readers I am Puneeta, a 5’ft tall frame 33-year-old chubby Indian wife with a soft, curvy body, my heavy, juicy saggy 38D tits that beg to be touched. I weigh 79 kilograms with most of that weight in my wide hips and thick thighs. My long, dark brown hair falls past my waist in soft waves framing my round, cherubic face.

And Harsh my tall, strapping devar is four years younger than me at 29 and weighs 83 kilograms of pure muscle.

He is the younger brother of my husband and single with no woman to call his own. And his manhood is long and thick promising to stretch and fill me until I scream with pleasure. So now you know everything there is to know about us. Physically, at least.

The cold fluorescent lights of the late-night bus cast long shadows, and I found myself squeezed into a seat next to my devar Harsh, a situation forced upon us by a family emergency that had us both rushing back home, the city lights blurring past the window. We had been trying to keep up appearances, chatting about the family, the unexpected trip, but the forced proximity, the shared secret we carried, simmered beneath the surface, and the tension was palpable. “So, how was the meeting with the bank manager?” I asked, my voice carefully casual, trying to project normalcy. “It was fine,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment, “but honestly, all I could think about was getting on this bus and getting home.”

“It’s been a long day,” I agreed, my gaze drifting to the window, and the conversation felt stilted, the words hanging heavy with unspoken desires. Harsh shifted, his thigh brushing against mine, and a jolt of electricity shot through me, and the small touch sent a shiver down my spine. “You look beautiful, Bhabhi,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low whisper, his eyes now locked on mine. “Harsh, be quiet,” I said, my voice a mere breath, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but my heart was racing. “I can’t,” he confessed, his gaze intense, “I can’t stop thinking about you. All the things you do, all the things you say, how you look, how you smell, how you taste.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded, but my voice was weak, and I knew I was losing the battle. “I have been yearning for you, Bhabhi, for so long,” he whispered, his eyes filled with a raw, untamed hunger, “I have been dreaming of you.” “You know we can’t,” I tried to say, but my voice was lost, and my resolve was melting away. “I know, but it’s like I’m addicted to you, Bhabhi, I can’t stop myself,” he said, his hand finding mine, his fingers interlacing with mine. The touch was electric, sending shivers through my body, and I could no longer deny the truth.

“Harsh, stop,” I said, my voice firm, but my heart was pounding in my chest, and I was suddenly aware of the curve of my breasts beneath my saree. “This is wrong, you know that, right? We are family.” I pulled my hand away from his, pretending to be offended. “How dare you speak to me like this?” I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and something else entirely, but I was enjoying the drama. “I ... I’m sorry, Bhabhi,” he stammered, his eyes wide with distress. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry.” “You think an apology will make all this disappear?” I asked, my voice cold, and I was loving his misery.

“No, Bhabhi,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “I know it won’t. But I can’t help how I feel about you, and I would never do anything to hurt you. Please, forgive me.” I turned away, pretending to look out the window. His confession had stirred something deep inside of me, and I was shaken up by my reaction. “Please,” he begged, his voice filled with desperation, “I’m on my knees. Let me be with you, Bhabhi. Let me feel you. I need you. I want you so much.” “Harsh,” I whispered, my voice breaking, and I could no longer hold back.

I turned back to him, my eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t do this anymore,” I confessed, my voice trembling. “I’ve been fighting these feelings for so long, but I can’t deny it any longer.” I reached out and took his hand, and my touch was soft. “I’m just as crazy about you as you are about me.” I leaned in, and I kissed him. The kiss was tender at first, then deepened as we both surrendered to the longing that had been building between us for so long. His arms wrapped around me, and I melted against him.

The first time I truly noticed Harsh, my devar, was during the Diwali celebrations, and I was draped in a bright yellow saree, and I was helping with the decorations, and he was watching me from across the room, and I caught him staring, and a warmth spread through me.

He had always been a handsome young man, but that day, his eyes were filled with a different kind of admiration, and I suddenly saw him in a new light. “I remember that Diwali, Bhabhi,” he said, his voice husky, “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” His smile, his way of looking at me made me feel special, and I knew then that I was starting to feel something more. The pink of my saree seemed to intensify the heat that was building between us, and the scent of jasmine from my hair filled the air.