I’m Ritu. Last rainy afternoon, my husband went to his friend’s farmhouse. The skies opened, drenching the fields. I stood outside in my wet pink saree, the cloth clinging to my full breasts and thick thighs. Every drop made my body ache. Arjun—my devar—came in from the storm. He stared. I didn’t speak. Instead, I rubbed my wet saree over my choot, glancing at him. He stepped closer, eyes dark.
“Tum bhi gili ho?” he whispered.
I nodded, then pulled his hand under the saree.
He felt the wetness. We didn’t say much. He kissed my neck, sliding the saree aside. I pressed back; his lund was hard already. Without hesitation, he lifted my petticoat and fucked me right there—rain hitting the roof while he pounded me hard. Every beat echoed, mixing with the thunderstorms.
I moaned in Hindi:
“Zyada… zyada… gehra…”
He obeyed. I came twice, soaked in rain and lust, choot pulsing, soaked saree heavy on my hips.
We parted quietly. I tucked the saree back.
“Bas yahi raaz… abhi tak,” I whispered.
He grinned in the rain.
