The lockdown had turned our small Melbourne home into a pressure cooker of unspoken desires. Dad, Mr. Rahman, sat on the couch with that restless energy only a 60-year-old man denied for years could radiate. Bithi, glowing from motherhood and breastfeeding, shifted beside me under the shared blanket. Her eyes sparkled with a hunger she couldn't hide.
I handed out the 'vitamins' earlier, watching them both swallow without question. The movie flickered—some steamy thriller with a slow-burn seduction scene lighting up the screen. I pretended to doze off, head lolling.
Dad's hand brushed Bithi's thigh first. 'Bithi beti, this scene is getting rather... warm, isn't it?' he murmured, voice low and teasing.
Bithi, never one to back down, shot back with a sharp laugh. 'Warm? Uncle, you're the one sweating like you've run a marathon. Or is it something else keeping you up at night?' Her tone was playful yet commanding, strong as ever. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in slightly.
His fingers found her breast, pressing gently at first. Bithi gasped softly, 'Ohh... careful, that milk's for the baby, but tonight... it feels so sensitive.' She was wet already, her body betraying her words as she slid her panties aside under the blanket. 'If you're going to touch, make it count. My pussy's dripping and I won't beg.'
Dad's cock hardened instantly from the pills, thick and insistent against her ass. He whispered, 'You're so wet, Bithi. Swimming in pleasure already?' She replied wittily, 'And you're hard as steel. Don't hold back—fuck me from behind before your son wakes.'
As the movie's climax built, so did theirs. He entered her slowly at first, then with building intensity, her pussy gripping him tight. 'Ahh... ohh, yes, deeper!' she panted, strong and in control, guiding his rhythm. Sweat beaded on their skin, her ass pressing back hungrily. The blanket hid their secret thrusts, each one sending waves of forbidden ecstasy.
I 'stirred' just as the credits rolled, but the real explosion was only beginning under the covers—their bodies locked in a wild, intense dance of need, promising hours more of passionate release.
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