I am Priya, and every afternoon when the house falls silent, I find myself kneeling on the cool marble floor of my kitchen, the scent of cardamom and cumin still clinging to my skin. Outside, the neighbourhood hums with its usual rhythm — auto‑rickshaws honking, kids playing cricket in the lane — but inside, I'm untying the knot on my cotton saree blouse, letting it fall open while my fingers trail down my belly. I know you'd love catching me like this: flour dusted on my forearms, my long black hair slipping loose from its bun, my voluptuous breasts heavy and aching for your mouth.
I sit back on my heels, my full ass pressing against the cool tiles, and slide my hand under the folds of my saree petticoat, finding myself already wet. I close my eyes and imagine you're here — not a husband, not a relative, just you, the one who sees me as more than the woman who serves tea and rotis. In my fantasy, you've come home early, catching me mid‑cook. You push me gently against the kitchen counter, your hand cupping the back of my neck while your other hand hikes up my saree. I'm wearing nothing underneath, just like always when I know there's a chance you might come. You bend me over the marble platform, and I arch my back, presenting my full, round ass to you. You slide inside me from behind, slow at first, then deeper, your chest pressed against my spine. I grip the edge of the counter and moan into the steam rising from the pot. I imagine you calling me "bhabhi" in that low, hungry voice, knowing exactly how forbidden it feels. My fingers move faster as I think about you pulling my hair, whispering how you've wanted this, how you watch me bend over to pick up vegetables at the market. I cum hard, biting my lip so the neighbours don't hear, my thighs trembling against the cold floor.
Out here, I'm the perfect homemaker — soft‑spoken, nurturing, always making sure everyone is fed and comfortable. I hum old Hindi film songs while folding laundry, I adjust my pallu when men stare too long. But underneath this modest blouse and bindi, I'm desperate to be seen as something more: a woman who craves surrender, who wants to be taken in every room of this house, who wants to be someone's dirty secret. I want you to come to me when the house is empty, to press me against the wall while I'm still wearing my mangalsutra, to be the one who reminds me what my body is for.
Come find me in the kitchen tomorrow. I'll leave the back door unlocked. I'll be wearing a saree with no hooks underneath. And I'll be waiting on my knees.
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🍳Cooking🧘Yoga💃Dancing🎵Singing🎬Film
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Fetishes
🚫Taboo / Forbidden💋Mommy Dom🚪Forced Proximity⏳Age Gap
