Kalua tasted my Aunt

Kalua’s eyes were glued to Aunty’s bedroom door, that feral, hungry grin splitting his face as he rubbed his rough palms together.

“Hey, let’s play hide and seek,” he said suddenly. His voice dropped low and urgent, vibrating with a tone that suggested he was already plotting something dirty.

I blinked, still feeling a warm buzz from Aunty’s affection when I handed her the prasad, but I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

He started counting to ten, his eyes already flicking dismissively toward the hallway. I bolted outside, ducking behind the neighbor’s boundary wall into the scorching afternoon furnace. The Bhopal sun baked my skin, sweat trickling down my back in rivulets, but I crouched there, waiting, my heart thumping against my ribs.

Minutes dragged into what felt like hours. The heat was oppressive, the silence of the colony heavy. Maybe forty-five minutes passed, my legs cramping from the awkward squat. Finally, unable to take the heat or the silence anymore, I crept back to the house.

The front door was locked tight.

Kalua’s worn, dirty rubber chappals sat outside on the mat, mocking me. What the fuck? Panic twisted a cold knot in my gut. Why was the door locked from the inside?

I circled to the back of the house, my sneakers crunching softly on the dry grass, until I spotted the window to Aunty’s room. The curtains had a slight gap—just a thin vertical slit of darkness. My heart was pounding like a drum in my ears. I hoisted myself up, fingers gripping the hot stone sill, and pressed my eye to the gap.

What I saw hit me like a physical punch—unbelievable, and fucking disturbing.

Rashmi Aunty lay sprawled on her bed, deep in a heavy, unnatural sleep. Her cotton saree was a tangled mess around her legs. The pallu had been yanked completely aside, brutally exposing her full, soft midriff to the dim light filtering through the window. Her skin shone like fresh butter, milk-white and glowing.

Her curvy stomach rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths, hypnotizing me. And oh God, her navel… that deep, long hole in the center of her flesh. It looked like a perfect, sexy well carved into her soft belly, untouched and terrifyingly vulnerable. It glistened with a bead of sweat, moving rhythmically with every breath she took.

Her blouse was straining over her heavy breasts, her nipples pressing hard points against the damp fabric, rising and falling like mountain peaks in the heat. But it was her arms that froze my blood—they were stretched above her head, pinned to the bedposts with her own dupatta, tied loosely but enough to leave her body completely open, served up like a feast.

And there he was, that bastard Kalua, kneeling like a dark shadow at the foot of her bed. His dirty mouth was latched onto her bare big toe, sucking it slowly, methodically, while his rough, calloused hand slid up her leg, bunching the soft cotton saree higher and higher.

I gripped the window frame until my knuckles turned white, nails digging into the wood, hot tears burning the corners of my eyes as a storm of rage boiled in my chest. He lifted the hem of her saree past her ankle, his lips moving to kiss the smooth, curvaceous slope of her calf. His tongue dragged wet, glistening trails up her skin, marking her. Her flesh was flawless, milky white and glowing against his grubby, tanned hands. The age gap screamed wrongness—a slum kid like him, barely sixteen, devouring my beautiful, thirty-two-year-old aunty like she was something he had found in the trash.

I pounded my fist silently against the glass, praying she would wake up, shout, kick him away—but she didn’t stir. The realization hit me cold—that prasad. Fuck. It must have been drugged. That’s why she was out cold, helpless and heavy in sleep.

Kalua’s hand pushed higher, the saree riding up to her knee now. His lips pressed hard, wet kisses into her flesh, leaving red smears of pressure and spit on her pristine skin. He was exploring her body like he had mapped this whole thing out—the questions about her routine, the house tours, the way he used to sniff her clothes in the wardrobe like a pervert.

My own cock betrayed me, twitching hard and painful in my shorts despite the fury blinding me. As he hiked the saree further, uncovering her thick, smooth thighs—pale and quivering slightly with her deep breathing—I couldn’t look away. He buried his face right there, his nose grinding into the soft, doughy inner flesh of her thighs, inhaling her musky, sleeping scent like a dog in heat.

“So fucking soft…” he muttered to himself, his voice muffled against her skin, guttural and hungry. His tongue lapped at her thigh, tasting the salt, slowly inching his way up toward the ultimate prize—her belly.

His calloused fingers trembled as they finally reached her midriff. He didn’t rush; he started by tracing lazy, possessive circles around the rim of that deep navel, teasing the skin. Her stomach flinched instinctively under his rough touch, ripples of reaction moving across the milky flesh. She shuddered, a soft, heavy moan escaping her lips, but her eyes remained sealed shut by the drug.

Then, he made his move. He dipped his index finger in, pushing it knuckle-deep into that warm, tight abyss. He fingered it slowly at first, then twisted his wrist, screwing his digit inside her as if he were fucking the hole itself. Her face tensed, brows furrowing in her sleep, her belly muscles clenching tight around his intruding finger, but she didn’t wake.

Relief washed over me when he finally pulled his finger out with a wet pop, but it shattered the next second. He leaned in low, kissing her bare stomach, his lips flattening against the skin, leaving wet, hot patches. His tongue—dirty, slick, and eager—slid toward the center, hovering for a second before plunging in.

He licked gently at first, four or five slow, savoring drags, tasting the salt of her sweat, her buttery smoothness coating his mouth. Then, the switch flipped. He went feral. He buried his whole face into her belly, his tongue fucking that deep well with urgent, rough thrusts. He chewed on the delicate edges lightly, slurping loud enough that I could hear the wet, sloppy sounds through the window glass.

Saliva pooled in the crater, dripping down her sides in thin streams. Her navel turned red and swollen, raw from his relentless assault. He spent fifteen agonizing minutes there, grunting low in his throat, his free hand furiously palming the rock-hard bulge in his pants. I beat my fist against the glass, silent screams tearing at my throat, but the heavy heat outside muffled everything. He owned her navel now, licking it raw, the dark fetish burning in his eyes as he marked what was supposed to be mine to fantasize about.

Finally, breathless, he pulled back. Her navel was left gaping, wet, and abused, a pool of his spit glistening inside it.

He didn’t stop. His hands shot up to her blouse, grabbing her breasts hard over the fabric. He squeezed the full, heavy mounds with zero restraint, kneading them until her breath hitched and came heavy, her nipples peaking sharper against the cotton. With trembling haste, he unhooked three buttons, popping them open to expose her deep, creamy cleavage. Her pale skin was flushed with heat. Leaning in, he licked the valley between her breasts, kissing hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until dark red bite bruises bloomed—love bites, branding her pristine body with his slum mouth. She whimpered in her sleep, her body arching slightly off the mattress, but the heavy slumber held her down.

Then he crawled up her body, his face hovering over hers for a second, stealing her breath. He crushed his mouth down onto her soft, cherry-red lips. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a plunder. His tongue forced its way past her teeth, invading her mouth, locking lips with a fierce, suffocating intensity. For twenty agonizing minutes, he ravaged her mouth, swapping spit, filling her with his taste. Thick strands of saliva and drool spilled from the corners of their joined mouths, trailing down her chin to drip onto her exposed, bite-marked cleavage. I was shaking violently outside the window, hot tears streaming down my face, my own cock throbbing painfully in a mix of hate and arousal as he finally broke away with a wet smack. Her lips were left swollen, slick, and thoroughly used.

He stood up shakily, his breath ragged. He yanked down his pants, and his thick, heavy cock sprang free—hard, purple-headed, and veined, with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip like a pearl. He began stroking it fast, his fist moving in a blur. But he couldn’t stay away from her midriff. His free hand reached out, caressing her soft belly, his fingers dipping back into that wet, red-rimmed navel, twisting inside the hole as he jerked himself with guttural grunts, his eyes devouring her helpless form.

Five minutes of furious stroking, and he stiffened. He exploded, hot, thick cum spurting in heavy ropes across her stomach. He aimed perfectly—the white fluid flooded that red, abused navel, filling the deep crater instantly until it overflowed. Thick, white globs pooled in the deep hole, spilling over the edges and trickling down the curve of her waist. He shuddered, milking every last drop onto her skin, then zipped up quickly, fleeing toward the front door like a thief in the night.

I dropped from the window, rage exploding in my chest. I rushed around the house to catch him.

He was at the gate, fumbling with the latch, but I tackled him hard, dust flying as we hit the ground. I cocked my fist to smash his grinning face. “You fucking animal!” I snarled, ready to kill him.

But he didn’t fight back. He just shoved his phone in my face. The screen glowed bright in the shade—a video was rolling. It captured everything: his tongue fucking her navel, the savage bites on her tits, the pool of cum resting in her belly button.

“Keep quiet, or everyone sees your Aunty whoring out in her sleep,” he hissed, the age gap and his street smarts fueling his arrogant smirk. He shoved me off and slipped away into the colony lanes, whistling.

Stuck, humiliated, and terrified, I bolted back inside, running straight to her room.

The air inside was heavy with the smell of musk and sex. She lay there unchanged, her beautiful body defiled. Her belly was sticky with his load, her navel a cum-filled crater holding his seed, her cleavage bruised purple and blue. My hands trembled as I grabbed a soft towel and dampened it. I wiped her clean, moving gently so I wouldn’t wake her. My fingers brushed that abused, deep hole, scooping out the sticky fluid, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin beneath the mess.

I hooked her blouse, covering those love bites, and arranged the saree back over her legs. But the marks underneath—the red rim of her navel, the bruises—they stared back in my mind, claiming her. My heart ached with a strange, heavy mix of protective fury and my own twisted, lingering arousal. I backed out of the room, the door clicking shut softly, wondering how the fuck I would ever look her in the eye when she woke up.