My dear friends, I’m Kajri, nineteen years old, living in Lucknow. I’m fair-skinned, with a slim waist, curvy hips, and 34C boobs that always pop out in my tight tees. My big, dark eyes and pink lips drive guys crazy. I’m a college girl, modern-minded, living life on my own terms. My mom, Radha, is only thirty-eight but looks way younger—like my older sister. Her figure is a stunning 36D-28-38, with fair skin, long black hair she often leaves loose, and a spark in her eyes that could make anyone weak. My elder sister, Geeta, twenty-four, is just as gorgeous but quieter. Her figure is 34B-26-36, and she’s always dressed elegantly in sarees or salwar suits. She got married last year to Rahul, my Jiju, who’s thirty, tall, fair, muscular, with a naughty glint in his eyes that hints at something more. Jiju’s a manager at a big IT firm in Bangalore, and Geeta works at a software company there too.
After Dad passed away, our lives changed. Mom and I moved to a posh new flat in Lucknow, far from old neighbors or relatives who’d judge us. We were free, living like best friends. Mom initially lived like a widow—plain sarees, no sindoor—but she transformed over time. Now she wears tight jeans, deep-neck tops, or sarees that hug her curves, looking like a total bombshell. People would say, “You don’t look like mother and daughter; you’re like sisters!” We started an online business together—handmade jewelry, designer clothes, some cosmetics—and it’s been booming. Money wasn’t an issue; we had a fancy flat, shopping sprees, and vacations. But there was one thing missing in Mom’s life—physical pleasure. I could see the hunger in her eyes, the way she’d linger on certain thoughts. I’m open-minded; I wanted her to live fully, to feel the passion every woman deserves. I tried talking to her about it, “Mom, you’re so hot, why don’t you enjoy life?” She’d laugh it off, “Kajri, you’re crazy, this isn’t for me.” But her eyes betrayed her longing.
Jiju came to Lucknow for some office work and stayed at our flat. He’s a generous guy, always taking care of our needs—buying me a new phone, gifting Mom a silk saree, or getting stuff for the house. But his eyes told another story. He’d flirt with me, saying, “Kajri, you’re getting hotter every day, leaving your sister behind.” He’d lightly kiss my hand or brush his fingers along my waist, sending shivers down my spine. He was the same with Mom—sitting close, resting his hand on her shoulder, and she’d smile in a way that wasn’t just polite. Their glances, those subtle touches, made me wonder what was brewing.
One afternoon, we were chilling in the living room. Mom was in a tight kurti and leggings, her curves on full display. Jiju complimented her, “Radha ji, you look younger than Geeta.” Mom giggled, “Oh, Rahul, stop teasing.” But her eyes sparkled with something more. I noticed his hand slide from her shoulder to her lower back, and she didn’t stop him. It felt odd, but I stayed quiet. That night after dinner, Jiju asked Mom for another cup of her “amazing coffee.” She laughed, “You just want an excuse, don’t you?” and headed to the kitchen. He followed her. I was in my room but got curious. Peeking out, I saw them in the kitchen, standing close, Mom’s face flushed as Jiju whispered something in her ear. She giggled softly, and I knew something was up.
One night, I was fast asleep in my room. Around 2 a.m., strange noises woke me up—moans, gasps, like someone was in pain. I panicked, thinking Mom was sick. I rushed to her room, where the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open a bit more, and what I saw blew my mind. Mom was sprawled on the bed, stark naked, legs spread wide, with Jiju on top, pounding her hard. Her heavy boobs bounced like volleyballs with every thrust. Jiju’s thick, hard cock slid in and out of her wet pussy, making a slick ‘slap-slap’ sound. Mom’s moans echoed through the room—“Ohhh… Rahul… fuck me harder… tear my pussy apart!” Jiju alternated between sucking her pink lips, squeezing her boobs, and biting her nipples. They were going at it like porn stars, lost in raw, animalistic lust.
Mom was writhing under him, begging, “Rahul, keep me satisfied like this. Treat me like your main wife. Pretend you married me along with my daughter. Do whatever you want—fuck my pussy, fuck my ass, I won’t stop you. Fuck me whenever, however you want!” Jiju ramped up his thrusts, making her boobs jiggle faster. He spread her legs wider, driving his cock deeper into her pussy. Mom’s moans turned into screams—“Oh god… harder… fuck me… rip my pussy!” He flipped her over, making her go doggy-style, grabbed her hips, and slammed his cock into her from behind. Her boobs dangled, swaying with each thrust, as she screamed, “Rahul… ohhh… fuck me deep… destroy me!” Suddenly, Mom let out a loud gasp, her body stiffened, and she pulled Jiju close, trembling as an orgasm hit her hard. Jiju gave one final thrust, unloading his hot cum deep inside her pussy. They collapsed together, drenched in sweat, panting. Mom closed her eyes, probably exhausted, and drifted off.
I stood frozen at the door, my body on fire. My pussy was soaked, my nipples rock-hard. I slid my hand under my tight tee, squeezing my boobs, pinching my nipples. Mom’s every moan sent shivers through me. I rubbed my pussy over my jeans, my breath heavy, my heart pounding. I wanted someone to fuck me, to quench this burning desire. I unbuttoned my jeans, slipped my hand into my wet panties, and started fingering myself, my pussy dripping with heat.
Jiju got up, still naked, heading for the bathroom. His cock was still semi-hard, glistening. Seeing it made my hunger worse. He spotted me and froze. “Kajri, you’re here?” he said, shocked. I couldn’t hold back. I threw myself at him, clinging tight, and whispered, “Yes, Jiju, I saw everything. Now it’s my turn. Please, put out my fire!” He hesitated for a second, but that naughty glint returned to his eyes.
He took me to my room, pushed me onto the bed, and yanked off my tee. My bra was ripped away, freeing my perky boobs. “Kajri, your tits are even hotter than your mom’s,” he growled, taking my nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. His tongue swirled around it, making me moan, “Ohhh… Jiju… suck them… squeeze my tits…” He pulled off my jeans, sniffed my soaked panties, and then dove in, licking my pussy. His tongue teased my clit, driving me wild. “Jiju… fuck… lick my pussy… don’t stop…” I screamed, my body shaking as I came hard from his tongue alone.
Jiju grabbed a Viagra from his bag, popped it, and his cock grew rock-hard again. He climbed over me, sliding his thick, hot cock into my tight pussy. It hurt at first, but soon pleasure took over. He started slow, then picked up speed, fucking me harder. My tits bounced with every thrust. “Kajri, your pussy’s so fucking tight… it’s amazing,” he groaned. I screamed back, “Jiju… fuck me harder… tear my pussy apart!” He fucked me in every position—doggy-style, grabbing my hips; then lifting my legs over his shoulders; then sitting me on his lap, my tits in his face as he sucked them while pounding me. For nearly three hours, he fucked me senseless. My pussy kept gushing, and I came over and over. Finally, he shot his hot load deep inside me, and I collapsed in his arms, spent.
That night, Jiju went back and forth between me and Mom. I sneaked a peek at Mom’s room later and saw him fucking her ass. She was on all fours, moaning, “Rahul… ohhh… fuck my ass harder!” It got me wet again, and I returned to my room. Jiju came back and fucked me again. The whole night was a blur of raw, relentless sex. By morning, we were all exhausted, but there was a strange calm on our faces, like we’d found something we all craved.
So, friends, that’s the story of how Jiju fucked me and my mom all night, satisfying every desire we had.