My name is Rekha, 26 years old, living in the bustling lanes of Sultanpuri, Delhi. My roots trace back to Baghpat, where my story began. It’s been three years since my marriage, but my husband had one flaw that overshadowed everything—he was impotent. No amount of wealth, not even billions, could fill the void that left in my life. A young woman craves her husband’s love, not just emotionally but physically too. The fire in her body needs to be quenched, or the bond between husband and wife starts to crumble. When physical satisfaction fades, love doesn’t stand a chance.
You hear it all the time—someone’s wife ran off with another man, a daughter returned home two years after her wedding, or a woman fled with someone else just six months into marriage. Ever wonder why? Food, clothes, shelter—you can find those anywhere. But the dreams a young man or woman weaves from the moment they hit puberty, the fantasies of passionate nights with their spouse, those are what drive them. I had those dreams too. For years, I imagined my husband holding me, ravishing me, making my body sing with pleasure. But when those dreams don’t come true, the heart shatters. My husband broke every single one of mine.
At first, things seemed fine. The early days of our marriage were filled with shy glances and tentative touches. But soon, I realized something was wrong. Every night was the same—he’d come to me, tease me, peel off my clothes, knead my breasts, and slide his hand over my pussy. But the moment things heated up, his cock would betray him. Sometimes, he’d barely touch my pussy with his tip, and his cum would spill out, leaving me aching and unsatisfied. Every time, he’d mutter the same word: “Sorry.”
I tried to be patient, thinking it was just a phase. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and nothing changed. My body burned with desire, my pussy throbbed for release, but he left me hanging every time. The frustration built up, and soon we were fighting over everything. A single wrong word would spark a shouting match. Once, we didn’t speak for a whole week. I started to resent him. To me, he wasn’t a husband anymore—just a burden I was forced to carry.
Our home was small, just me, my husband, and my father-in-law. My mother-in-law had passed away years ago. My father-in-law, at 50, was a striking man—tall, muscular, with a rugged charm that belied his age. His broad chest and strong arms hinted at a vitality my husband lacked. As the fights with my husband grew worse, I found myself turning to my father-in-law for comfort. I couldn’t share my pain with friends—they’d gossip or laugh. But my father-in-law listened. I poured my heart out to him, confessing how my husband couldn’t satisfy me, how my youth was slipping away. He’d nod, his eyes soft, and say, “Don’t worry, Rekha. Everything will be alright.”
But there was more in his gaze. His eyes lingered on me, and I felt a shift. He started caring for me in ways my husband never did. If I needed something from the market, I’d ask him instead of my husband, and he’d bring it without hesitation. He noticed my moods, my desires, even the smallest things—like buying my favorite sweets or ensuring I had new clothes. My husband began to suspect something. One day, he confronted me, “What’s going on between you and Papa? Why are you so close?” I snapped. “You can’t fulfill me as a husband, and now you question me? Am I your prisoner? If a wife doesn’t get what she needs, what’s she supposed to do?”
That fight was the breaking point. My husband stormed out, leaving for our ancestral village in Rajasthan. Now it was just me and my father-in-law in the house. I was hurt, but deep down, I felt free. No more pretending, no more empty nights. Then came Karva Chauth. I fasted all day, hungry and thirsty, for a husband who didn’t deserve it. That evening, as the moon rose, I called him on WhatsApp. He sent a cold message: “Break your fast with the man you left me for. I’m done with you.” His words stung, but I was done too. My father-in-law was by my side, calming me. “Don’t cry, Rekha. I’m here for you.”
I went to the terrace, offered water to the moon, and looked through the sieve. My father-in-law handed me a glass of water to break my fast. That night, I had dressed like a bride. I wore a red saree that clung to my curves, my makeup flawless from a trip to the parlor. Every inch of my body was waxed smooth, my skin glowing. My saree’s pallu barely covered my heavy breasts, and my deep navel peeked out, teasing the eye. As I descended the stairs, I caught my father-in-law’s gaze—hungry, intense. I bent to touch his feet, but he pulled me up and into his arms. My breasts pressed against his hard chest, and I felt his cock stiffen against me. Sparks shot through my body. My breath quickened, my pussy already wet with anticipation.
His hands cupped my face, his fingers brushing my lips. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment. His touch trailed down my neck, over my shoulders, and paused at my breasts. My nipples hardened under his gaze. He unhooked my blouse, letting it fall. His fingers deftly undid my bra, and my full, round breasts spilled out, bouncing free. He grabbed them, squeezing gently at first, then harder, his thumbs circling my nipples. I moaned, my body trembling. My pussy was dripping, soaking my thighs. I threw my arms around him, and we stumbled toward the bedroom, our bodies pressed together.
On the bedgamma, he tore off my saree, the pallu dropping to the floor. My petticoat’s knot was next, untied with a single tug. I wore a red, lacy panty, barely covering my pussy. He ripped it off, leaving me completely naked. My shaved pussy glistened with arousal. He spread my legs wide, kneeling between them. His fingers explored my wet folds, teasing my clit. Then his tongue dove in, lapping at my pussy like a man starved. I arched my back, moaning loudly—Ohhh… Papa ji, what are you doing to me! His tongue flicked my clit, then plunged inside, tasting my salty-sweet juices. My breasts heaved with every gasp, my nipples aching for his touch.
He sucked harder, his fingers sliding in and out of my pussy, curling to hit that sweet spot. I writhed, my moans turning to screams—Fuck… yes, don’t stop! My pussy clenched around his fingers as he devoured me. He grabbed my breasts, kneading them roughly, pinching my nipples until I cried out in pleasure-pain. My first orgasm hit like a tidal wave, my body shaking as I came hard, my juices coating his face. He licked every drop, his eyes locked on mine.
He stood, stripping off his clothes. When I saw his cock, my jaw dropped. It was massive—9 inches long, 3 inches thick, veins pulsing, the head glistening. It looked like a beast ready to claim me. I grabbed it, stroking its length, feeling it throb in my hand. I took it into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip, tasting his salty precum. I sucked him deep, my lips stretching around his girth. He groaned, his hands in my hair, guiding me as I bobbed up and down. I teased his balls, massaging them gently, then licked the underside of his shaft, making him growl with pleasure.
He pulled me off, his cock glistening with my saliva. He flipped me onto the bed, sliding a pillow under my hips to lift my pussy higher. My legs spread wide, inviting him. He positioned his cock at my entrance, rubbing the head against my slick folds. I begged, “Please, Papa ji… fuck me!” With one powerful thrust, he buried his entire length inside me. I screamed—Ohhh, fuck, it’s so big! My pussy stretched to accommodate him, the fullness overwhelming. He started slow, each thrust deep and deliberate, his cock hitting my cervix.
My breasts bounced wildly with every thrust. He leaned down, sucking my nipples, biting them hard enough to make me yelp. The pain only fueled my desire. I wrapped my legs around him, urging him deeper. “Harder… fuck me harder!” I screamed. He obliged, pounding into me with animalistic force. My pussy gripped him tight, milking his cock. He flipped me over, putting me on all fours. His cock slammed into me from behind, his balls slapping my clit. He spanked my ass, the sting sending shivers through me. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, pulling my hair. “Yes… fuck my pussy… tear it apart!” I cried.
He fucked me in every way imaginable. He sat on the bed, pulling me onto his lap, his cock impaling me as I rode him. My breasts bounced in his face, and he sucked them greedily. Then he pinned me against the wall, lifting one leg to drive even deeper. My pussy came again, my juices dripping down my thighs. He pushed me back onto the bed, hooking my legs over his shoulders, and fucked me with relentless intensity. My screams filled the room—Ohhh… I’m cumming again! His thrusts grew erratic, and with a primal roar, he unloaded inside me, his hot cum flooding my pussy. I came with him, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over me.
We collapsed, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. For half an hour, we lay there, naked, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin. My pussy throbbed, deliciously sore. We got up, and he fed me dinner with his hands, a tender gesture that melted my heart. I fed him too, our fingers brushing, sparking new desire. Later, we strolled on the terrace under the stars. He pulled out a gold necklace—5 tolas, heavy and gleaming—from his late wife’s collection. “This is for you, Rekha,” he said. “You’re my everything now. I’ll never let you want for anything.” Tears welled in my eyes. He’d given me more than jewelry—he’d given me a new life.
Today, we live as husband and wife, our nights filled with passion. My husband can rot in Rajasthan for all I care. My father-in-law satisfies my every craving, his cock dousing the flames of my youth. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, with no regrets. Tell me, have I done wrong? My life is a tapestry of pleasure, and I’m weaving it with every thrust.