Priya adjusted the heavy red lehenga in front of the mirror, her mangalsutra gleaming against her fair skin. The haveli in Rajasthan was grand — marble floors, ancient paintings, and the scent of incense mixed with desert sand. It was her first night in her sasural after the lavish wedding. Her husband Rahul, 28, tall and well-built, smiled at her gently as he closed the bedroom door.

"Priya, you look beautiful," he whispered, kissing her forehead softly.

She blushed, heart racing with nervous excitement. But as the night unfolded, excitement turned to quiet disappointment.

Rahul was tender — too tender. He kissed her lips lightly, caressed her breasts over the blouse, and entered her after minimal foreplay. Within five minutes, he groaned and finished inside her, rolling off with a satisfied sigh. Priya lay there, staring at the ceiling, her body aching with unfulfilled need. Her pussy felt barely touched, no fire, no intensity. She had touched herself secretly before marriage and knew what real pleasure could feel like. This? This was nothing.

"Are you okay, jaan?" Rahul asked, pulling her close.

"Yes," she lied, forcing a smile. Inside, a small seed of resentment bloomed. Is this what married life is?

Days turned into weeks. Rahul's routine sex was always the same — missionary, gentle thrusts, quick release. Priya started faking moans, her fingers secretly rubbing her clit after he slept. Her body craved more. Rougher. Deeper. Filthier.

One humid afternoon, while Rahul was away in Jaipur for business, Priya was alone in the courtyard washing clothes in her simple cotton sari. Her devar, Arjun — Rahul's 24-year-old younger brother — watched her from the balcony. Arjun was lean, muscular from gym workouts, with a mischievous smirk and dark eyes that always lingered on her pallu.

"Bhabhi, you look hot in that wet sari," he teased, coming down the stairs.

Priya blushed, covering her chest. "Arjun, don't talk like that. I'm your bhabhi."

But her words lacked conviction. Arjun stepped closer, his hand brushing her waist. "Rahul bhai doesn't satisfy you, does he? I hear you sighing at night."

Priya's heart pounded. She should have pushed him away. Instead, she froze as his fingers traced her navel through the wet fabric.

That evening, in the empty storeroom behind the kitchen, it began.

Arjun pushed her against the wall, yanking her sari pallu down. "You've been starving, bhabhi. Let me feed you."

He kissed her hard, biting her lower lip. His hands mauled her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped. Unlike Rahul, Arjun was rough. He shoved two fingers into her pussy without warning, curling them deep.

"Oh god... Arjun..." Priya moaned, shame mixing with raw pleasure.

He finger-fucked her furiously, spitting on her tits, slapping them lightly. "Say it. Say your husband can't fuck you properly."

"He can't... he's too gentle... I need this," she whimpered, hips bucking.

Arjun made her kneel on the dusty floor. He pulled out his thick, veiny cock — bigger than Rahul's — and slapped it across her face. "Suck it like a good sasural whore."

Priya hesitated only a second before taking him in her mouth, gagging as he fucked her throat. Saliva dripped down her chin onto her mangalsutra. He came hard, flooding her mouth with thick cum. She swallowed most of it, coughing, her pussy dripping.

From that day, Priya started sneaking with Arjun. He introduced her to light bondage — tying her hands with her own dupatta, spanking her ass red while fucking her doggy style. The filthier it got, the wetter she became.

But one evening, as Arjun was pounding her in the guest room, choking her lightly from behind, the door creaked open.

There stood her father-in-law, Mahesh — a 52-year-old stern, powerful man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a commanding presence. He had caught them.

Priya froze in terror, Arjun's cock still buried deep inside her.

Mahesh's eyes darkened with lust instead of anger. "So the new bahu is already a randi. Close the door, Arjun. We need to teach her what real sasural service means."