My name is Hanshika, and at twenty-seven, I’m a woman whose dusky allure turns heads. People say my sharp features and sultry eyes could make any man weak in the knees. I’m tall, slender, with a delicate frame, and my narrow waist accentuates every curve, making me a vision from head to toe. On our wedding night, my husband confessed that when he first saw me before our marriage, my figure alone had him smitten. And when he gazed upon my face, he was utterly captivated, his heart racing out of control.
I was married at twenty, and now I’m the mother of a six-year-old son, Ravi. Since his birth, I haven’t conceived again. We never bothered to investigate why—whether it was me or him. Whenever I brought up wanting another child, my husband brushed it off. “We’ve got one precious son,” he’d say. “That’s enough. Why do we need more?”
But his words never satisfied me. One child wasn’t enough to fill the void in my heart. I longed for at least two or three kids, a burning desire to be a mother again that never faded. My neighbor, Sheila, suggested, “Hanshika, take your husband to a hospital. Get checked. You’ve had one child before, so it’s probably a minor issue. Treatment could fix it, and you’ll conceive again.”
When I mentioned this to my husband, he snapped. “I don’t like running to doctors,” he barked. “I don’t need more kids. Why are you so desperate, whining to the neighbors? God gave us a son—take care of him and be happy.”
That was a year ago. My husband works at a hospital, sometimes on day shifts, sometimes nights. I have no brothers-in-law, just two sisters-in-law—Rita, married before me, and Meena, wed last year. We enrolled Ravi in school, and from the start, he showed promise as a bright student. I adore him, tending to his every need—food, clothes, everything. Yet, my heart wasn’t content. I kept dreaming of another child, even a daughter, to complete our family. The craving never left me.
This longing began to twist my thoughts. My desires turned reckless. I started fantasizing about fulfilling my need through one of my husband’s friends, hoping it would lead to another child. My mind was so clouded that I didn’t stop to consider whether the fault lay with my husband’s seed or my womb. I never thought, If I’m the problem, how would sleeping with another man help? All I could focus on was the idea that another man might quench my thirst for motherhood.
My husband has many friends, but two—Ramesh and Sanjay—are particularly close, often visiting our home. Both are married, each with two children. When my husband’s dismissal crushed my hopes, my attention naturally drifted to them. I’d never veiled myself in their presence, even joking and laughing with them in front of my husband. Their eyes always betrayed a hunger for my youthful beauty, but I ignored it because I didn’t need them then. My husband was strong, virile, exactly my type. But his rejection made him seem cold and inadequate in my eyes, pushing me toward his friends.
Before, if they came over and my husband wasn’t home, they’d leave. Now, I started inviting them to stay. If my husband was out, I’d offer them tea. Sometimes Ramesh came, sometimes Sanjay. They saw my invitations as a stroke of luck. Over tea, I’d keep them engaged, flashing coy smiles, teasing them about their wives or past girlfriends. They’d lap up my words, responding with playful banter. My beauty had them spellbound, and I was ready to surrender to their masculinity. But my shyness held me back.
We were inching closer to something forbidden, yet I didn’t want to sleep with both—not because I didn’t desire it, but because I feared scandal. I was baiting them, leaving it to fate to decide who’d take the first step. They never came together. On the rare occasions they did, I didn’t ask them to stay, and they didn’t linger. Each was plotting his move, too cautious to share the moment.
My father-in-law, whom I call Papa Ji, lost his right foot in an accident four years ago. He no longer works—what’s the need? We own our house, and my husband earns well. At forty-seven, Papa Ji spends his days at home, often bored. Every evening around four, he limps to the market, his injury slowing him down. It takes him two or three hours to return. This was my window to flirt with my husband’s friends, though they didn’t come every day.
One evening, I was sipping tea with Ramesh. We’d been laughing for half an hour, our chemistry crackling. As he stood to leave, he let his desire slip. “Hanshika, I don’t want to go. I could sit with you forever.” I smiled, saying nothing. Just then, Papa Ji returned early, after only an hour. Seeing Ramesh, he left, but the two teacups caught his eye. My lingering smile must have sparked suspicion. He didn’t say anything then.
Ravi is very close to Papa Ji, spending most of his time studying or playing with him. Even after eating, he’ll take a bite or two with Papa Ji. He falls asleep by his side. When my husband’s on night duty, I’d carry Ravi to my bed after he slept. If it’s a day shift, I let him stay with Papa Ji.
The next evening, my husband was on night duty. Dinner was done, Ravi was asleep, and Papa Ji was preparing for bed. As I went to fetch Ravi, Papa Ji asked, “Hanshika, what was Ramesh doing here yesterday? What did he say?”
I explained, “I was about to sip my tea when he showed up. I told him you weren’t back from duty, so I offered him tea. He stayed. I gave him my cup and got another. He was talking about a specialist, saying we should get checked for any issues. Treatment could help. Then you came, and he left.”
Papa Ji’s eyes narrowed. “He left the moment I arrived. That’s why I’m wondering.” He patted the bed. “Sit, Hanshika. Let me explain.”
I hesitated. He was my husband’s father—sitting beside him felt wrong. Sensing my unease, he didn’t insist but continued, “Look, there’s nothing wrong with you or my son. He’s being foolish. Night shifts are the problem. I’ve told him countless times to avoid them, but he doesn’t listen. If he’s at the hospital all night and does nothing here, how will you have kids?”
His words hit home, and I blushed. I glanced at him, then stood quietly. He was right. My husband came home exhausted from night shifts, slept all day, and left again. On day shifts, he’d sleep with me, but we only had sex two or three times a month. I’d convinced myself that without passionate, frequent sex, conception was impossible. Beyond that, I was in the prime of my youth, craving more. My body ached for satisfaction.
Papa Ji went on, “Ramesh is giving doctor advice today. Tomorrow he’ll say he can make you a mother. I get it, Hanshika—you’re young, gorgeous. You need a man’s full attention. Every woman wants to be a mother. You’ve had one child, but one isn’t enough. You deserve two or three. But that doesn’t mean you sleep with his friends. These guys are reckless—they’ll blab to everyone. You’ll be slandered. Stop talking to him. If it was someone trustworthy, I wouldn’t object. There are other ways to become a mother.”
Startled, I blurted, “What…?”
He smiled. “Take Ravi to his bed, then I’ll tell you. It’s a perfect solution—our family’s honor stays intact, and you’ll have your two or three kids. Your unfulfilled desires will be quenched too.”
I wanted that path to motherhood. I decided to return to Papa Ji. As I lifted Ravi, he brushed my breasts, asking, “You’ll come back after settling him, right?”
I froze, nearly dropping Ravi. Outside his room, I thought it over. Papa Ji’s offer was easy, discreet. The family’s honor would stay safe. If he spoke out, he’d shame himself first. My heart agreed, but my feet wouldn’t move toward his room. Our bond chained me. My body tingled with anticipation, yet crossing that threshold felt like a journey too vast.
After much hesitation, I couldn’t muster the courage. I switched off the light and sat beside Ravi. Papa Ji’s room was lit—he was waiting. Eventually, he turned off his light and lay down. I bit my lip, regretting my indecision. He’d opened the door, but maybe he thought I wasn’t willing. My mind wrestled—go or stay?
Sighing, I buried my head in my knees. Motherhood on one side, our sacred bond on the other. I was stuck. Then Papa Ji’s voice broke through. “Hanshika, didn’t you keep water by my bed?”
“Coming,” I said, springing up. I flicked on the light and rushed to the tap. I knew I’d left water earlier, but his request felt like an invitation. It was my excuse to go to him. Pretending I’d forgotten, I took fresh water, knowing I’d be trapped. I left Ravi’s light on so he wouldn’t wake scared. As I placed the glass down, I said, “I already left water here.”
He grabbed my arm. “I know. I called you to ask—did my words upset you?”
“No,” I replied softly.
“If you’re not upset, sit with me.”
He pulled my arm, and I stumbled onto the bed beside him, perhaps deliberately letting myself fall.
“Don’t be shy, Hanshika,” Papa Ji said, his voice low and warm. “This is about solving your problem. Wanting another man wasn’t wrong, but Ramesh? He’s trouble. You’re so stunning, any man would fall for you. But if you sleep with an outsider, his friends will line up next. You’ll be forced to please them all. Refuse, and they’ll slander you. Give in, and word will spread. You’ll be labeled a loose woman, and our family’s name will be dragged through the mud. I’m family. No one will suspect us. I’d never let you face shame—it’d ruin me too. Drop your inhibitions and come to me.”
His words stirred me. He pulled me close, and I melted into his chest without resistance. Surrender was my only path. At forty-seven, Papa Ji wasn’t old—he looked youthful, vibrant. A generation older, yes, but he knew how to appreciate and savor beauty. That night, I discovered his modern flair for passion. I waited, breathless, for his next move.
“What’s wrong, Hanshika? Your body’s craving it, isn’t it?” he murmured, squeezing me tight.
“Ohh!” I gasped, my body trembling. I lifted my face, and our eyes locked. Shame made me close mine. I wasn’t ready. Then his warm lips pressed against mine, stealing my breath. My body quivered.
“Wow,” he whispered, pulling back. “You’re breathtaking. Your breath smells like jasmine.”
His praise sent my heart soaring. I shyly averted my eyes. He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. My eyes stayed shut, my breaths heavy. “Don’t hide those eyes, my love,” he said, kissing my eyelids. “Open them. Let me see the depths of those lakes.”
His words made me giggle, and my eyes fluttered open. As our gazes met, I threw my arms around his neck, resting my chin on his shoulder. His hands roamed my bare waist, sending my pulse racing.
“Your waist is a killer,” he said. “Every time I saw it, I could barely breathe.”
I teased, “So you’ve been plotting this for a while, huh?”
His passion flared. He pushed me down, pinning me to the bed. My legs curled in his lap. He lifted my feet, staring at them before kissing them fervently. “Your feet are like lotus petals. No wonder they’re called divine.”
His adoration made me feel like a queen. No one, not even my husband, had praised me like this. Papa Ji felt like the perfect man. He released my feet, slid his hands around my waist, and lifted me. My body arched like a bridge. He smiled, gazing at my stomach before kissing my navel. A shiver ran through me. He lowered me back to the bed, his hands exploring my breasts. The dim light from my room spilled into his, casting a soft glow.
“Take these off,” he said, tugging at my blouse. “They’re ruining the moment.”
I stole glances at him as my shyness faded. He unhooked my blouse, removed my bra, and pulled off my saree. My bare breasts captivated him so much he forgot my petticoat. His hands grazed them lightly at first, then pressed harder. Finally, he squeezed them firmly.
“Oh, God!” I moaned, pleading with my eyes for mercy. He eased up, sitting beside me, gently caressing my breasts. His touch ignited a fire in me. I bit my lip. He leaned close. “Don’t hurt those lips. Give them to me.”
I released my lip, and he claimed my mouth, sucking deeply. My breaths quickened. I squirmed, trapped in his passion. He lifted my arm, draping it around his neck, then guided my other hand to his cock.
“Here’s your toy,” he said. “Play with it.”
His cock filled my hand, its warmth thrilling me. I was past fear. Taller than my husband, his cock was longer too, though just as thick. I stroked it slowly. My lips ached, so I pushed his head back. He understood, pulling away to meet my eyes. “Enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I smirked, playfully slapping his cheek. “Too much.”
“Your charm is deadly,” he said, kissing my nose.
I asked, “How do you feel with me?”
“I’ve never felt this alive,” he replied. “You’re a goddess.” He kissed my nipples, then took one in his mouth.
I hadn’t expected this from Papa Ji. My husband used to do the same, but Papa Ji’s warm mouth on my nipple set my body ablaze. My breaths faltered, moans escaping my lips. He sucked each breast for what felt like forever. When my lips stung, he looked up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked with a smile.
“You’re too quiet,” he teased. “Do something, or I’ll tire out.”
I laughed. “Give me my turn!”
He pulled me onto him, lying back. My body sprawled over his, our lips colliding. I kissed him slowly, then hungrily, nibbling his lips. He squirmed when I bit too hard. As we kissed, I shifted my lower body off him. His cock peeked through his clothes. I grabbed it, then began undressing him. One garment later, he was naked. I broke the kiss to admire his cock, stroking it gently. It was indeed longer than my husband’s, just as thick.
“What are you staring at?” he asked.
“It’s huge,” I said, eyes fixed on it.
“It should be bigger,” he chuckled. “The longer and thicker, the more pleasure a woman feels. Don’t be scared.” He pulled my face to his. “Look at me. You’re stunning. Let me drink you in.”
His hands cradled my face. I reveled in showing off my beauty. My nose flared with arousal, my face flushed. He tilted my head, kissing my cheek. In that moment, I forgot our bond. I felt cherished, desired by a man I craved. I kissed his arms, his broad chest, then rested my head there, surrendering completely. His hands slid to my stomach, teasing my navel before stripping off my petticoat. I leaned into his chest as he pulled me up, both of us standing.
Naked, we clung to each other. His hard cock pressed an inch below my navel, my breasts crushed against him. He touched my chin, and I tilted my face up. He kissed me deeply, then stepped back to admire my nude form. His expression showed how much I enthralled him.
“I’m shy,” I said, smiling. “Can I sit?”
He opened his arms, and I fell into them. “Don’t tease me anymore,” I whispered. “I can’t breathe.”
He laid me down, climbing over me. His fingers explored my pussy, pinching lightly. “You’re already wet,” he said.
“You’re ready too,” I replied.
He dove back to my lips, kissing fiercely. They burned, but he couldn’t get enough. I squeezed his cock hard. He pulled back. “Tell me, which position do you like?”
“My husband used to take me lying flat, between my thighs. Now he prefers me on top. It’s tiring but fun. Do what you like. What did Mummy Ji enjoy?”
He turned me onto my stomach, instructing me to bend my knees. My ass lifted, my face and breasts pressed into the pillow. “This is the cow position,” he said. “It helps conception. If you don’t like it, lie flat.”
“No, this is fine,” I said. “Let’s see how good it feels.”
He knelt behind me. As he positioned himself, his cock brushed my asshole. I tensed. He adjusted, placing it at my pussy’s entrance, then touched my asshole. “Ever tried anal?”
“It hurts,” I said. “My husband tried once. I couldn’t bear it, so he stopped.”
“Too much force, probably,” he said. “Anal can be amazing. I’ll show you sometime. Tell me if it hurts.” He began sliding his cock into my pussy.
The tip went in smoothly. He paused, then thrust hard, his entire length piercing me, hitting deep. I groaned, inching forward. He grabbed my waist, pulling me back, pressing deeper. The length was intense. I tried to move again, but he held firm.
“Easy,” I pleaded. “It’s too much. It hurts.”
“Just a few times, Hanshika,” he soothed, stroking my back. “It’s new. Be patient. You’ll feel pleasure you’ve never imagined.”
He pulled back slightly, then thrust fast. “Oh!” I cried. His passion doubled, pounding me relentlessly. I moaned, the deep thrusts both painful and thrilling. I endured the pain for the pleasure.
During a pause, he asked, “Feels good, right?”
“It does,” I admitted, “but the pain’s stealing the fun. I’m trapped today. I won’t come back—you’re giving more pain than pleasure.”
He stopped, easing his cock back. “Why say that? Better now?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then enjoy,” he said, thrusting gently. I stopped moaning. As I neared climax, I gasped, “Harder! Like before, please!”
He unleashed his full force. I moaned louder. Moments later, I came, gripping his thighs. “Stop… please!” He wasn’t ready to stop, but soon he climaxed too, collapsing onto my back, panting.
Thus began our forbidden affair. Whenever my husband was on night duty, I’d slip into Papa Ji’s bed at night. During day shifts, I’d go to him in the afternoon. Ravi was too young to notice, and no one else was around. We indulged freely in our lust. For six months, I didn’t conceive, and regret crept in. I was certain something was wrong with me. Just when despair took hold, I learned I was pregnant.
I told Papa Ji and my husband. My husband was overjoyed. “Hanshika, your wish came true,” he said. “You wanted more kids, and God answered. Be careful now.” Both he and Papa Ji were thrilled, caring for me diligently. I gave birth to a beautiful child. Later, with Papa Ji, I had another. Now, I use birth control pills, savoring the physical pleasure he still gives me with unbridled passion.