Indian Mausi Sex Story: Two Days in a Delhi Flat

This is an indian mausi sex story, and I am telling it exactly the way it happened. The pressure cooker was screaming on the stove at six in the morning and I walked into my kitchen half asleep to find Meena mausi standing there in my old oversized t-shirt, flour on her cheek, her hair tied up in a loose knot, and I forgot every word I was going to say.

"Shut it off, Arjun," she laughed, pointing at the cooker with a wooden spoon. "Your dal is about to leave the pot and join us."

I killed the flame and stood there staring because the t-shirt was mine and it was riding up her thighs every time she moved, and her saree from last night was drying on the balcony line. "Your blouse got stained?" I asked, and she turned, and flour floated off her cheek when she smiled.

"Haldi. Last night while grinding the masala. Your washing machine ate my good blouse, so I stole your shirt. Complain to your mother." She was thirty nine, divorced for three years, and had arrived from Jaipur on Friday evening with one suitcase and a shopping list for my mother's fiftieth birthday party.

My mother, her elder sister Sunita, was still at our ancestral home in Jaipur and would land on Saturday night. Meena mausi had come a day early to help me prep. That was the official story. Nobody told us what the weekend would actually become.

Friday evening she had walked in, dropped her bag, and hugged me so hard I could feel every curve of her through her cotton saree. "Kitna patla ho gaya hai," she had scolded, pinching my arm, and her perfume, something warm with jasmine, stayed in my nose long after she let go.

We ordered takeout and sat on the floor cushions because my dining table was buried under birthday decorations. She told me about Jaipur, about her boutique customers, about her ex husband who had cheated on her with his own secretary. She said it lightly, like a joke she had rehearsed until it stopped hurting.

"Three years, Arjun. Three years since any man has looked at me like I am a woman and not somebody's problem," she said, swirling her beer. Then she caught my eye and added, "You are staring, beta."

"I am not," I lied, and she laughed so hard she spilled a drop on her saree, and I watched her wipe it, and I hated myself a little and wanted her a lot.

Saturday morning we went to the market for flowers and fairy lights. She walked close enough that her shoulder kept brushing my arm, and twice her fingers curled around my wrist to steer me toward a shop, and both times she held on a second longer than steering required.

"You pick the marigolds," she said, "I will pick the lights. And no arguing, your taste is terrible." The shopkeeper thought we were a couple and said, "Madam, your husband has good height," and she did not correct him. She just smiled at me sideways, and my whole face went hot.

Back home we spent the afternoon decorating. She climbed the little ladder to hang lights across the living room, and her saree pallu slipped off her shoulder as she reached up. I saw the curve of her blouse, the sweat at her collarbone, and I steadied the ladder with both hands and did not look away fast enough.

"Hold it straight, not me," she said softly, but her voice had changed, lower, and when she climbed down she let her hand slide across my shoulder on the way past. It landed there and stayed there for three full seconds.

By evening the flat looked like a wedding venue and we were both sticky with sweat and glue. "Cooking time," she announced. "Your mother wants the full feast ready before she lands. You chop, I cook. And no burnt rotis this time."

We worked side by side in my narrow kitchen, hips bumping every time one of us turned. She taught me to knead dough, standing behind me, her hands over mine, pressing my palms into the soft atta. Her chest pressed against my back with every push. Her breath was on my neck.

"Slow," she whispered, guiding my wrists in circles. "Feel it. Dough tells you when it is ready." My hands were shaking. Her thumbs dug gently into my knuckles. I could feel her nipples hard through her blouse against my spine, and I stopped breathing.

"Maasi," I said, my voice cracking. She froze behind me. The only sound was the ceiling fan and our breathing. Then her hands tightened over mine, and she said, very quietly, "Do not call me that right now."

I turned around in her arms. Flour dusted both our shirts. Her eyes were huge and dark and fixed on my mouth. I cupped her jaw with a floury hand and she leaned into it like she had been waiting for someone to hold her face for three years.

I kissed her. It started gentle and then her mouth opened under mine and her tongue met my tongue and she made a small hungry sound and grabbed the front of my t-shirt with both fists. We kissed until the dough went stiff in the bowl, forgotten.

"Arjun," she breathed against my lips. "If we stop now, I will pretend this never happened. If we do not stop, everything changes."

"I do not want to stop," I said, and I lifted her onto the kitchen counter. Her saree rode up to her waist. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me between her thighs, and through her petticoat and my shorts I could feel how wet she already was, how hard I already was.

I pushed her petticoat aside and slid my fingers inside her panties. She was soaked, dripping, her inner thighs slick. She gasped and threw her head back and gripped the counter edge. "Oh God, Arjun, yes, there, do not stop," she moaned, grinding down onto my hand.

I worked two fingers deep inside her, curling them, while my thumb circled her clit. Her hips bucked off the counter. She bit her own knuckle to stay quiet, then gave up and moaned out loud, and I felt her walls clench and pulse around my fingers as she came, hard, shaking, her legs squeezing my wrist.

Before she had finished shuddering she was pulling at my shorts. "My turn," she whispered, and she slid off the counter to her knees on my kitchen floor. She took my cock in her hand, looked up at me with those dark eyes, and wrapped her lips around the head.

She sucked me slow and deep, her tongue swirling, one hand stroking what her mouth could not take, the other cupping my balls and tugging gently. I tangled my fingers in her loose hair knot and it came undone, hair falling around her face, and she moaned around me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine.

"Meena," I groaned, "I am going to come." She did not pull away. She took me deeper and swallowed everything, stroking me through it, and when she finally let go she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled up at me like the cat who got the cream.

"Bedroom," she said, standing up, pulling her saree off her shoulder and letting it pool on the floor. "Now."

We barely made it to the bed. She pushed me down and straddled my face, lowering herself onto my mouth, and I buried my tongue in her, licking deep, sucking her clit, while she rode my face and moaned my name and fisted the bedsheets. She came again, louder this time, her thighs trembling around my ears.

Then she rolled off, pushed me onto my back, and climbed on top of me. She guided my cock inside her slowly, inch by inch, her eyes locked on mine, both of us gasping. She was so tight and so wet that I thought I would finish in ten seconds.

"Look at me," she commanded, and I did, and she rode me hard, her breasts bouncing free of her blouse, her hair wild, her nails digging into my chest. She leaned forward and bit my shoulder and whispered, "Harder, Arjun, do not be gentle with me, I am not made of glass."

I flipped her onto her back and drove into her, deep and fast, the bed banging against the wall. She wrapped her legs high around my waist and met every thrust, moaning, "Yes, yes, right there, oh God, yes," and I felt her clench around me as she came for the third time, crying out into my shoulder.

I pulled out at the last second and turned her over. She went willingly onto her hands and knees, arching her back, looking over her shoulder at me. "Like this," she whispered. "Finish like this."

I entered her from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair, pulling gently. The angle was so deep she screamed into the pillow. I pounded into her, watching her ass bounce against my thighs, and when I came I groaned her name and collapsed over her back, both of us slick with sweat.

We lay tangled in the ruined sheets for a long time, not speaking. Finally she traced a finger down my chest and said, "Your mother lands in six hours. We have a feast to cook and a party to host. And nobody can ever know."

"I know," I said. She turned her head and kissed my shoulder, soft, almost sad. "Do you regret it?" I asked. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I regret the three years I waited."

We cooked the feast side by side with flour on our clothes and secrets in our eyes. Every time our hands brushed over the vegetables, a current ran through me. Twice she pressed her hips against me at the counter when the pressure cooker whistled to cover the sound of her whispering, "Tonight, after she sleeps."

My mother landed at nine, swept in with gifts and gossip, and never noticed that her younger sister's eyes kept finding mine across the dinner table, or that Meena mausi's foot found my ankle under the table and stayed there through dessert.

The party on Sunday was a triumph. Fifty guests, fairy lights, the full feast. My mother cried happy tears. And in the middle of it, Meena pulled me into the dark balcony for thirty seconds, kissed me hard enough to bruise, and pressed a folded note into my palm.

I read it in the bathroom with my heart hammering. It said, "Next month. My flat in Jaipur. No birthday, no excuse, no stopping. Come alone. M."

I walked back to the party, folded the note into my pocket, and caught her eye across the room. She raised her glass to me, just slightly, and mouthed one word. "Soon."