Aditi Sharma was the college ki maal. Sleek, sharp, every guy's khwab. But she was seedhi-saadhi. Married at twenty-two, moved to the city, became the housewife she always wanted. Two kids, peaceful life, sab kuch theek thaak. She was happy being invisible. Being adarsh biwi.

Then she turned thirty-five.

Her body changed. Betrayed her. Not gradually but violently in a matter of couple of months. Hips widened. Tits swelled from modest to cow size, stretching every bra into a struggle. Her ass became fat, heavy, jiggling with every step. And the khushboo. Not just sweat. Something deeper. Pheromones, maybe. A scent that made men stare, then sniff, then mad. She didn't notice at first. She noticed when the neighbor's son "helped" with groceries, hand "accidentally" grinding her hip. When her sasur's hugs lasted ten seconds too long, his face buried in her neck, his grip tightening. When the watchman stopped her at the gate just to stand close enough to see her tits move as she breathes. Her body had become a trap she never weaved.

She was too timid or afraid to stop any of it. Too susheel to speak out loud and warn someone to stay in their limits. Too trained to be achhi bahu, achhi biwi, achhi maa. She couldn't tell her husband–Wo kya sochenge, kya kahenge? Ke unke papa ne mujhe zabardasti gale se laga lia? Ke pados ke chintu ke mujhe piche chunti kaati? Ke doodhwale ne mere stan... Chiiii. She cursed her luck and her body. The men sensed it. Her silence. Her shame. Her inability to say nahi.

They escalated. The neighbor started "borrowing" sugar, pinning her against the fridge while his hand slid under her petticoat. Her own bauji, visiting from the village, cornered her in the puja room—"Meri beti itni badi ho gayi," he whispered, squeezing her new fat ass, "pata nahi tha tu itni maal banegi." The school teacher made her come daily. The milkman stopped delivering elsewhere. The watchman started his shift early.

---

Unlike my other posts, this one starts straight into action of her terrible life. But I do want a multi para roleplay over discord. That remains non-negotiable. You'd have to play every male role, this is not a group play. But almost every scene will be 1:1 or max 2:1.

If you read this far, send Mohalle ka maal + Discord tag as your first line. And of course, send me your take on this, the direction you want to take, how you intend to use her. Without all this, I'll assume you didn't read the post completely and ignore your message. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

Note: Low effort messages ignored. Discord only. Hinglish required. Also this roleplay is not for females, seriously please don't DM me.

Note 2: This is a multi-para slow burn long term roleplay. Please stop sending me low effort 3-4 line messages. If you can't out an effort in your message, I don't think you'll put any effort into the roleplay. Not for sexting.

---

I met his family at my cousin's wedding - me in a purple saree who's pallu kept slipping. They all awestruck in eyes. They were formal, proper, laughing and drinking like everyone else. But every time I looked up, someone was heating their eyes on my exposed skin. I felt uncomfortable. I felt excited.

The proposal came from their side. Everyone eager to meet me, except his mother, which makes sense now. "Meri hone wali bhabhi," his little brother said, looking straight at my chest. I blushed. His elder brother, my future husband, said nothing. Just smiled. Looked at my waist, my hips, the way my saree clung where it shouldn't. "Acchi lag rahi ho," he said finally. Simple. Direct. His eyes said the rest. I felt naked while fully covered.

The roka happened a month later. His family came to our house—sasur with his stern face and wandering hands, jeth with his loud voice and louder stares, devar with his constant hovering. Even as I touched sasurji's feet, his hands lingered on my naked back instead of my head. I served chai. Sasurji's fingers brushed mine when he took the cup, held too long. "Garam hai," he said staring into my blouse, not talking about the tea. I simply stayed quiet, not hiding my exposed cleavage as my pallu slipped lower. I felt a gaze on my ass as I walked around serving everyone.

Jeth cornered me in the corridor. "Bhabhi banne wali ho," he said, leaning close, his shoulder pressing mine against the wall. "Ji" I said. "Ghar ki parampara samajhni hogi. Samjhi?" His hand found my waist, squeezed, let go before anyone turned the corner. Moved over my stomach as he walked away like nothing happened. Like he'd only adjusted my dupatta. Like I imagined the pressure, the promise, the samjhi that echoed in my stomach for hours.

The wedding shopping was worse. Better. Sasur insisted on coming, "Meri bahu hai, main dekhunga ki kya pehnegi", while my mother was asked to stay home. He stood behind me as I adjusted a lehenga, his hands finding hooks, pulling. "Thoda tight hai," he murmured, fingers pressing my spine, my skin, stopping where the blouse ended. "Zara dheere se saans lo. Kahi fatt na jaaye." His hand lingered on my upper back as he looked at me in the mirror. "Thoda purane zamane ka hai. Vaise kuch pehno, us shaadi ke din jaisa," he said, looking straight at my cleavage. I blushed and nodded. He picked a really small blouse—smaller, tighter, almost backless. "Ye hui na baat. Ab dekhne mein maza aa raha hai."

I should have told someone. Should have pulled away, complained, cried. Instead I stood still. Let him. Wanted him to continue, to cross the line, to make it real so I could stop pretending I imagined it.

The ring ceremony night, my to-be devar found me in the dressing room waiting for my mother. Everyone dancing outside. He pulled me up, made me stand, hugged me—wrapping his hands around my naked waist, his face directly in my cleavage. "Bhabhi," he breathed, young and desperate, "kitni pyaari lag rahi ho aap."

His chin rested on my breast. He looked at us in the mirror. It looked so wrong. So right. I gasped when he kissed my exposed cleavage, gave myself an excuse that it's because he can't reach my cheeks. He held me like that for five minutes, hands feeling my naked back, sometimes slipping lower for a second or two, his face rubbing my cleavage. I told myself it was the last time. That marriage would make it all stop.

The wedding ceremony. Everyone excited when we arrived at the hotel days before. All eyes on me. All over me. Jethji found me on the lawn late night, taking a walk. "Ghar ki aurtein itni raat akele ghoomti shobha nahi deti," he said sternly, grabbed my waist, pulled me into him. "Kahi kuch ho na jaaye."

He pushed me against a wall in a corner "Biwi toh tum uski banogi," he growled, "par is jism ki zimmedari meri hogi.". He grabbed my nighty's satin shirt and yanked, tearing apart the top three buttons. I gasped in shock but didn't cover myself. "Samjhi?" he asked sternly.

I nodded. I should've screamed, hit him. I just nodded. He put a golden chain around my neck—even before my husband touched me. I gasped and squealed as he grabbed my half-naked tits, squeezed hard, so hard, then covered them back. "Samjhi?" I nodded again.

I barely slept that night. Early morning, someone knocked. I opened to sasurji, his perverted smirk. He sneaked in like we were having an affair, took my hand, dragged me to the bed, sat with me. "Maine socha nai naveli dulhan ke liye ek tohfa leke aau," he said, his hand slipping inside the back of the same shirt his elder son partially tore and I stitched back. I gasped as his hand reached my bra.

"Itni sundar. Itni agyakaari. Itni susheel. Itni..." he moaned slowly, squeezing my stomach, "...sexy." I moaned too. "Meri koi beti nahi. Aaj se tum meri bahu nahi, beti ho. Jo mera, wo sab tumhara. Aur jo tumhara..." he said, looking at my body, "...wo sab mera." I knew what he wanted. Should push him away. Should. But I didn't. I didn't want to.

"J-ji sasurji." I complied. "Aaahaannn..." he grabbed my thigh with his other hand. "Sasurji nahi. Papa kaho." Squeezing my thigh, his other hand grabbed my breast over my bra, making me gasp. He pulled a golden kamarband from his pocket.

"Ye tumhare mere hone ki nishani hai. Ye tumhe roz pehenna hai, aaj se. Shaadi samay bhi. Shaadi ke baad bhi. Har samay" I nodded, biting my lip, as he made me stand and pull my shirt up to expose my stomach. He grabbed my pyjama and pulled it lower, exposing more, stopping barely above my ass crack as he put the kamarband around my waist. "Ati sundar. Aise hi pehna karo. Aur Dhyaan rahe. Ye tumhare jism se kabhi utarna nahi chahiye." He kissed my navel. I gasped and moaned, replying: "Ji... sa... papaji."

The rest of the day was full of "accidental" touches between ceremonies and functions. I was physically tired, mentally exhausted from stimulation. When I went to my room for a nap before getting ready for the wedding, someone was already in my bed. I pulled the blanket—my devar, smiling at me.

"Bhabhi," he said, jumped on me, held me tight, shoved his face in my tits again. "Yahan kya kar rahe ho tum?" I asked. "Aapka wait." he said. He instantly pulled me on top of him, both of us falling on the bed, him under me. Every effort to get up failed against his grip on my waist, his kisses on my chest.

"Bhabhi, aapko bhaia se kyu shaadi karni hai? Aap mere se shaadi karlo." I blushed and giggled. An innocent request made vulgar by his face in my tits, his hand on my waist. After talking and playful struggle, we ended up hugging in bed—his hands all over my stomach and waist, his face in my cleavage again.

"Bhabhi, main aapke liye kuch laaya hu." He showed me a paayal. "Acha, aap meri biwi nahi ban sakti, par aap meri girlfriend banogi? Banogi naa? Banjao naa" I couldn't say no. I know I should. But I just nodded. Excited, he immediately got up, started sliding my saree up my legs. I gasped when he didn't stop at my knees, pushed my saree way higher.

"Payal pair mein pehnate hai." I taunted him, yet unable to scold him. "Ye payal nahi hai. Ye yahan ke liye hai." He kissed my mid-thigh, over and over. Put the tight silver thigh band around my thigh, a little above the middle, lay down on me again.

"Promise karo, aaj se roz pehnogi. Din raat. Chahe kuch bhi ho jaaye. Warna main yahan se jaunga nahi." His hands held me down. "Acha baba, promise. Ab mujhe thoda araam karne doge?". He nodded, kissed my cheeks and cleavage again, ran off.

I have no idea what I'm marrying into. But I'm definitely excited.

---

The Roleplay

Every man has a different personality. Jeth: dominating, misogynistic, even abusive. Sasur: tharki pervert, a little creepy and devilish. Devar: hopeless romantic, clingy, doesn't understand moral boundaries. Equal status after husband. Husband's personality is yours to propose—most interesting ones win.

Two starting options:

1. Pre-wedding: Starting from roka, shopping, mehendi—through gradual secret formation with each male family member. This is only if you have alterations in mind which I prefer over original. Nothing spoken aloud. Everything implied, arranged, understood.
2. Wedding onward: We continue from wedding setup. And make the wedding ceremony and the marital life more colorful.

FYI for people who didn't understand this, you'd have to play every male role, this is not a group play

If you read this far, send "Khandaan ki biwi" + Discord tag as your first line. And of course, send me your take on this, the direction you want to take, how the husband fits into all this and whats his personality. Without all this, I'll assume you didn't read and ignore your message. I don't want to sound like a bitch but if you see the junk I get in DMs, you'd do this too. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

As I said above, I only roleplay on Discord.

Note: Low effort messages ignored. Discord only. Hinglish required.

Note 2: Not for females, seriously no need to DM me.

Note 3: Seriously stop sending me low effort 4 line messages. I'll block people this time. Read the whole thing or go away. Plenty of sexters here, go play with them.

---

I met his family at my cousin's wedding - me in a purple saree who's pallu kept slipping. They all awestruck in eyes. They were formal, proper, laughing and drinking like everyone else. But every time I looked up, someone was heating their eyes on my exposed skin. I felt uncomfortable. I felt excited.

The proposal came from their side. Everyone eager to meet me, except his mother, which makes sense now. "Meri hone wali bhabhi," his little brother said, looking straight at my chest. I blushed. His elder brother, my future husband, said nothing. Just smiled. Looked at my waist, my hips, the way my saree clung where it shouldn't. "Acchi lag rahi ho," he said finally. Simple. Direct. His eyes said the rest. I felt naked while fully covered.

The roka happened a month later. His family came to our house—sasur with his stern face and wandering hands, jeth with his loud voice and louder stares, devar with his constant hovering. Even as I touched sasurji's feet, his hands lingered on my naked back instead of my head. I served chai. Sasurji's fingers brushed mine when he took the cup, held too long. "Garam hai," he said staring into my blouse, not talking about the tea. I simply stayed quiet, not hiding my exposed cleavage as my pallu slipped lower. I felt a gaze on my ass as I walked around serving everyone.

Jeth cornered me in the corridor. "Bhabhi banne wali ho," he said, leaning close, his shoulder pressing mine against the wall. "Ji" I said. "Ghar ki parampara samajhni hogi. Samjhi?" His hand found my waist, squeezed, let go before anyone turned the corner. Moved over my stomach as he walked away like nothing happened. Like he'd only adjusted my dupatta. Like I imagined the pressure, the promise, the samjhi that echoed in my stomach for hours.

The wedding shopping was worse. Better. Sasur insisted on coming, "Meri bahu hai, main dekhunga ki kya pehnegi", while my mother was asked to stay home. He stood behind me as I adjusted a lehenga, his hands finding hooks, pulling. "Thoda tight hai," he murmured, fingers pressing my spine, my skin, stopping where the blouse ended. "Zara dheere se saans lo. Kahi fatt na jaaye." His hand lingered on my upper back as he looked at me in the mirror. "Thoda purane zamane ka hai. Vaise kuch pehno, us shaadi ke din jaisa," he said, looking straight at my cleavage. I blushed and nodded. He picked a really small blouse—smaller, tighter, almost backless. "Ye hui na baat. Ab dekhne mein maza aa raha hai."

I should have told someone. Should have pulled away, complained, cried. Instead I stood still. Let him. Wanted him to continue, to cross the line, to make it real so I could stop pretending I imagined it.

The ring ceremony night, my to-be devar found me in the dressing room waiting for my mother. Everyone dancing outside. He pulled me up, made me stand, hugged me—wrapping his hands around my naked waist, his face directly in my cleavage. "Bhabhi," he breathed, young and desperate, "kitni pyaari lag rahi ho aap."

His chin rested on my breast. He looked at us in the mirror. It looked so wrong. So right. I gasped when he kissed my exposed cleavage, gave myself an excuse that it's because he can't reach my cheeks. He held me like that for five minutes, hands feeling my naked back, sometimes slipping lower for a second or two, his face rubbing my cleavage. I told myself it was the last time. That marriage would make it all stop.

The wedding ceremony. Everyone excited when we arrived at the hotel days before. All eyes on me. All over me. Jethji found me on the lawn late night, taking a walk. "Ghar ki aurtein itni raat akele ghoomti shobha nahi deti," he said sternly, grabbed my waist, pulled me into him. "Kahi kuch ho na jaaye."

He pushed me against a wall in a corner "Biwi toh tum uski banogi," he growled, "par is jism ki zimmedari meri hogi.". He grabbed my nighty's satin shirt and yanked, tearing apart the top three buttons. I gasped in shock but didn't cover myself. "Samjhi?" he asked sternly.

I nodded. I should've screamed, hit him. I just nodded. He put a golden chain around my neck—even before my husband touched me. I gasped and squealed as he grabbed my half-naked tits, squeezed hard, so hard, then covered them back. "Samjhi?" I nodded again.

I barely slept that night. Early morning, someone knocked. I opened to sasurji, his perverted smirk. He sneaked in like we were having an affair, took my hand, dragged me to the bed, sat with me. "Maine socha nai naveli dulhan ke liye ek tohfa leke aau," he said, his hand slipping inside the back of the same shirt his elder son partially tore and I stitched back. I gasped as his hand reached my bra.

"Itni sundar. Itni agyakaari. Itni susheel. Itni..." he moaned slowly, squeezing my stomach, "...sexy." I moaned too. "Meri koi beti nahi. Aaj se tum meri bahu nahi, beti ho. Jo mera, wo sab tumhara. Aur jo tumhara..." he said, looking at my body, "...wo sab mera." I knew what he wanted. Should push him away. Should. But I didn't. I didn't want to.

"J-ji sasurji." I complied. "Aaahaannn..." he grabbed my thigh with his other hand. "Sasurji nahi. Papa kaho." Squeezing my thigh, his other hand grabbed my breast over my bra, making me gasp. He pulled a golden kamarband from his pocket.

"Ye tumhare mere hone ki nishani hai. Ye tumhe roz pehenna hai, aaj se. Shaadi samay bhi. Shaadi ke baad bhi. Har samay" I nodded, biting my lip, as he made me stand and pull my shirt up to expose my stomach. He grabbed my pyjama and pulled it lower, exposing more, stopping barely above my ass crack as he put the kamarband around my waist. "Ati sundar. Aise hi pehna karo. Aur Dhyaan rahe. Ye tumhare jism se kabhi utarna nahi chahiye." He kissed my navel. I gasped and moaned, replying: "Ji... sa... papaji."

The rest of the day was full of "accidental" touches between ceremonies and functions. I was physically tired, mentally exhausted from stimulation. When I went to my room for a nap before getting ready for the wedding, someone was already in my bed. I pulled the blanket—my devar, smiling at me.

"Bhabhi," he said, jumped on me, held me tight, shoved his face in my tits again. "Yahan kya kar rahe ho tum?" I asked. "Aapka wait." he said. He instantly pulled me on top of him, both of us falling on the bed, him under me. Every effort to get up failed against his grip on my waist, his kisses on my chest.

"Bhabhi, aapko bhaia se kyu shaadi karni hai? Aap mere se shaadi karlo." I blushed and giggled. An innocent request made vulgar by his face in my tits, his hand on my waist. After talking and playful struggle, we ended up hugging in bed—his hands all over my stomach and waist, his face in my cleavage again.

"Bhabhi, main aapke liye kuch laaya hu." He showed me a paayal. "Acha, aap meri biwi nahi ban sakti, par aap meri girlfriend banogi? Banogi naa? Banjao naa" I couldn't say no. I know I should. But I just nodded. Excited, he immediately got up, started sliding my saree up my legs. I gasped when he didn't stop at my knees, pushed my saree way higher.

"Payal pair mein pehnate hai." I taunted him, yet unable to scold him. "Ye payal nahi hai. Ye yahan ke liye hai." He kissed my mid-thigh, over and over. Put the tight silver thigh band around my thigh, a little above the middle, lay down on me again.

"Promise karo, aaj se roz pehnogi. Din raat. Chahe kuch bhi ho jaaye. Warna main yahan se jaunga nahi." His hands held me down. "Acha baba, promise. Ab mujhe thoda araam karne doge?". He nodded, kissed my cheeks and cleavage again, ran off.

I have no idea what I'm marrying into. But I'm definitely excited.

---

The Roleplay

Every man has a different personality. Jeth: dominating, misogynistic, even abusive. Sasur: tharki pervert, a little creepy and devilish. Devar: hopeless romantic, clingy, doesn't understand moral boundaries. Equal status after husband. Husband's personality is yours to propose—most interesting ones win.

Two starting options:

1. Pre-wedding: Starting from roka, shopping, mehendi—through gradual secret formation with each male family member. This is only if you have alterations in mind which I prefer over original. Nothing spoken aloud. Everything implied, arranged, understood.
2. Wedding onward: We continue from wedding setup. And make the wedding ceremony and the marital life more colorful.

FYI for people who didn't understand this, you'd have to play every male role, this is not a group play

If you read this far, send "Khandaan ki biwi" + Discord tag as your first line. And of course, send me your take on this, the direction you want to take, how the husband fits into all this and whats his personality. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

As I said above, I only roleplay on Discord.

Note: Low effort messages ignored. Discord only. Hinglish required.

I met his family at my cousin's wedding - me in a purple saree who's pallu kept slipping. They all awestruck in eyes. They were formal, proper, laughing and drinking like everyone else. But every time I looked up, someone was heating their eyes on my exposed skin. I felt uncomfortable. I felt excited.

The proposal came from their side. Everyone eager to meet me, except his mother, which makes sense now. "Meri hone wali bhabhi," his little brother said, looking straight at my chest. I blushed. His elder brother, my future husband, said nothing. Just smiled. Looked at my waist, my hips, the way my saree clung where it shouldn't. "Acchi lag rahi ho," he said finally. Simple. Direct. His eyes said the rest. I felt naked while fully covered.

The roka happened a month later. His family came to our house—sasur with his stern face and wandering hands, jeth with his loud voice and louder stares, devar with his constant hovering. Even as I touched sasurji's feet, his hands lingered on my naked back instead of my head. I served chai. Sasurji's fingers brushed mine when he took the cup, held too long. "Garam hai," he said staring into my blouse, not talking about the tea. I simply stayed quiet, not hiding my exposed cleavage as my pallu slipped lower. I felt a gaze on my ass as I walked around serving everyone.

Jeth cornered me in the corridor. "Bhabhi banne wali ho," he said, leaning close, his shoulder pressing mine against the wall. "Ji" I said. "Ghar ki parampara samajhni hogi. Samjhi?" His hand found my waist, squeezed, let go before anyone turned the corner. Moved over my stomach as he walked away like nothing happened. Like he'd only adjusted my dupatta. Like I imagined the pressure, the promise, the samjhi that echoed in my stomach for hours.

The wedding shopping was worse. Better. Sasur insisted on coming, "Meri bahu hai, main dekhunga ki kya pehnegi", while my mother was asked to stay home. He stood behind me as I adjusted a lehenga, his hands finding hooks, pulling. "Thoda tight hai," he murmured, fingers pressing my spine, my skin, stopping where the blouse ended. "Zara dheere se saans lo. Kahi fatt na jaaye." His hand lingered on my upper back as he looked at me in the mirror. "Thoda purane zamane ka hai. Vaise kuch pehno, us shaadi ke din jaisa," he said, looking straight at my cleavage. I blushed and nodded. He picked a really small blouse—smaller, tighter, almost backless. "Ye hui na baat. Ab dekhne mein maza aa raha hai."

I should have told someone. Should have pulled away, complained, cried. Instead I stood still. Let him. Wanted him to continue, to cross the line, to make it real so I could stop pretending I imagined it.

The ring ceremony night, my to-be devar found me in the dressing room waiting for my mother. Everyone dancing outside. He pulled me up, made me stand, hugged me—wrapping his hands around my naked waist, his face directly in my cleavage. "Bhabhi," he breathed, young and desperate, "kitni pyaari lag rahi ho aap."

His chin rested on my breast. He looked at us in the mirror. It looked so wrong. So right. I gasped when he kissed my exposed cleavage, gave myself an excuse that it's because he can't reach my cheeks. He held me like that for five minutes, hands feeling my naked back, sometimes slipping lower for a second or two, his face rubbing my cleavage. I told myself it was the last time. That marriage would make it all stop.

The wedding ceremony. Everyone excited when we arrived at the hotel days before. All eyes on me. All over me. Jethji found me on the lawn late night, taking a walk. "Ghar ki aurtein itni raat akele ghoomti shobha nahi deti," he said sternly, grabbed my waist, pulled me into him. "Kahi kuch ho na jaaye."

He pushed me against a wall in a corner "Biwi toh tum uski banogi," he growled, "par is jism ki zimmedari meri hogi.". He grabbed my nighty's satin shirt and yanked, tearing apart the top three buttons. I gasped in shock but didn't cover myself. "Samjhi?" he asked sternly.

I nodded. I should've screamed, hit him. I just nodded. He put a golden chain around my neck—even before my husband touched me. I gasped and squealed as he grabbed my half-naked tits, squeezed hard, so hard, then covered them back. "Samjhi?" I nodded again.

I barely slept that night. Early morning, someone knocked. I opened to sasurji, his perverted smirk. He sneaked in like we were having an affair, took my hand, dragged me to the bed, sat with me. "Maine socha nai naveli dulhan ke liye ek tohfa leke aau," he said, his hand slipping inside the back of the same shirt his elder son partially tore and I stitched back. I gasped as his hand reached my bra.

"Itni sundar. Itni agyakaari. Itni susheel. Itni..." he moaned slowly, squeezing my stomach, "...sexy." I moaned too. "Meri koi beti nahi. Aaj se tum meri bahu nahi, beti ho. Jo mera, wo sab tumhara. Aur jo tumhara..." he said, looking at my body, "...wo sab mera." I knew what he wanted. Should push him away. Should. But I didn't. I didn't want to.

"J-ji sasurji." I complied. "Aaahaannn..." he grabbed my thigh with his other hand. "Sasurji nahi. Papa kaho." Squeezing my thigh, his other hand grabbed my breast over my bra, making me gasp. He pulled a golden kamarband from his pocket.

"Ye tumhare mere hone ki nishani hai. Ye tumhe roz pehenna hai, aaj se. Shaadi samay bhi. Shaadi ke baad bhi. Har samay" I nodded, biting my lip, as he made me stand and pull my shirt up to expose my stomach. He grabbed my pyjama and pulled it lower, exposing more, stopping barely above my ass crack as he put the kamarband around my waist. "Ati sundar. Aise hi pehna karo. Aur Dhyaan rahe. Ye tumhare jism se kabhi utarna nahi chahiye." He kissed my navel. I gasped and moaned, replying: "Ji... sa... papaji."

The rest of the day was full of "accidental" touches between ceremonies and functions. I was physically tired, mentally exhausted from stimulation. When I went to my room for a nap before getting ready for the wedding, someone was already in my bed. I pulled the blanket—my devar, smiling at me.

"Bhabhi," he said, jumped on me, held me tight, shoved his face in my tits again. "Yahan kya kar rahe ho tum?" I asked. "Aapka wait." he said. He instantly pulled me on top of him, both of us falling on the bed, him under me. Every effort to get up failed against his grip on my waist, his kisses on my chest.

"Bhabhi, aapko bhaia se kyu shaadi karni hai? Aap mere se shaadi karlo." I blushed and giggled. An innocent request made vulgar by his face in my tits, his hand on my waist. After talking and playful struggle, we ended up hugging in bed—his hands all over my stomach and waist, his face in my cleavage again.

"Bhabhi, main aapke liye kuch laaya hu." He showed me a paayal. "Acha, aap meri biwi nahi ban sakti, par aap meri girlfriend banogi? Banogi naa? Banjao naa" I couldn't say no. I know I should. But I just nodded. Excited, he immediately got up, started sliding my saree up my legs. I gasped when he didn't stop at my knees, pushed my saree way higher.

"Payal pair mein pehnate hai." I taunted him, yet unable to scold him. "Ye payal nahi hai. Ye yahan ke liye hai." He kissed my mid-thigh, over and over. Put the tight silver thigh band around my thigh, a little above the middle, lay down on me again.

"Promise karo, aaj se roz pehnogi. Din raat. Chahe kuch bhi ho jaaye. Warna main yahan se jaunga nahi." His hands held me down. "Acha baba, promise. Ab mujhe thoda araam karne doge?". He nodded, kissed my cheeks and cleavage again, ran off.

I have no idea what I'm marrying into. But I'm definitely excited.

---

The Roleplay

Every man has a different personality. Jeth: dominating, misogynistic, even abusive. Sasur: tharki pervert, a little creepy and devilish. Devar: hopeless romantic, clingy, doesn't understand moral boundaries. Equal status after husband. Husband's personality is yours to propose—most interesting ones win.

Two starting options:

1. Pre-wedding: Starting from roka, shopping, mehendi—through gradual secret formation with each male family member. This is only if you have alterations in mind which I prefer over original. Nothing spoken aloud. Everything implied, arranged, understood.
2. Wedding onward: We continue from wedding setup. And make the wedding ceremony and the marital life more colorful.

FYI for people who didn't understand this, you'd have to play every male role, this is not a group play

If you read this far, send "Khandaan ki biwi" + Discord tag as your first line. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

As I said above, I only roleplay on Discord.

[f4MMm] Pure Sasuraal ki Biwi

Note: Low effort messages ignored. Discord only. Hinglish required.

I met his family at my cousin's wedding - me in a purple saree who's pallu kept slipping. They all awestruck in eyes. They were formal, proper, laughing and drinking like everyone else. But every time I looked up, someone was heating their eyes on my exposed skin. I felt uncomfortable. I felt excited.

The proposal came from their side. Everyone eager to meet me, except his mother, which makes sense now. "Meri hone wali bhabhi," his little brother said, looking straight at my chest. I blushed. His elder brother, my future husband, said nothing. Just smiled. Looked at my waist, my hips, the way my saree clung where it shouldn't. "Acchi lag rahi ho," he said finally. Simple. Direct. His eyes said the rest. I felt naked while fully covered.

The roka happened a month later. His family came to our house—sasur with his stern face and wandering hands, jeth with his loud voice and louder stares, devar with his constant hovering. Even as I touched sasurji's feet, his hands lingered on my naked back instead of my head. I served chai. Sasurji's fingers brushed mine when he took the cup, held too long. "Garam hai," he said staring into my blouse, not talking about the tea. I simply stayed quiet, not hiding my exposed cleavage as my pallu slipped lower. I felt a gaze on my ass as I walked around serving everyone.

Jeth cornered me in the corridor. "Bhabhi banne wali ho," he said, leaning close, his shoulder pressing mine against the wall. "Ji" I said. "Ghar ki parampara samajhni hogi. Samjhi?" His hand found my waist, squeezed, let go before anyone turned the corner. Moved over my stomach as he walked away like nothing happened. Like he'd only adjusted my dupatta. Like I imagined the pressure, the promise, the samjhi that echoed in my stomach for hours.

The wedding shopping was worse. Better. Sasur insisted on coming, "Meri bahu hai, main dekhunga ki kya pehnegi", while my mother was asked to stay home. He stood behind me as I adjusted a lehenga, his hands finding hooks, pulling. "Thoda tight hai," he murmured, fingers pressing my spine, my skin, stopping where the blouse ended. "Zara dheere se saans lo. Kahi fatt na jaaye." His hand lingered on my upper back as he looked at me in the mirror. "Thoda purane zamane ka hai. Vaise kuch pehno, us shaadi ke din jaisa," he said, looking straight at my cleavage. I blushed and nodded. He picked a really small blouse—smaller, tighter, almost backless. "Ye hui na baat. Ab dekhne mein maza aa raha hai."

I should have told someone. Should have pulled away, complained, cried. Instead I stood still. Let him. Wanted him to continue, to cross the line, to make it real so I could stop pretending I imagined it.

The ring ceremony night, my to-be devar found me in the dressing room waiting for my mother. Everyone dancing outside. He pulled me up, made me stand, hugged me—wrapping his hands around my naked waist, his face directly in my cleavage. "Bhabhi," he breathed, young and desperate, "kitni pyaari lag rahi ho aap."

His chin rested on my breast. He looked at us in the mirror. It looked so wrong. So right. I gasped when he kissed my exposed cleavage, gave myself an excuse that it's because he can't reach my cheeks. He held me like that for five minutes, hands feeling my naked back, sometimes slipping lower for a second or two, his face rubbing my cleavage. I told myself it was the last time. That marriage would make it all stop.

The wedding ceremony. Everyone excited when we arrived at the hotel days before. All eyes on me. All over me. Jethji found me on the lawn late night, taking a walk. "Ghar ki aurtein itni raat akele ghoomti shobha nahi deti," he said sternly, grabbed my waist, pulled me into him. "Kahi kuch ho na jaaye."

He pushed me against a wall in a corner "Biwi toh tum uski banogi," he growled, "par is jism ki zimmedari meri hogi.". He grabbed my nighty's satin shirt and yanked, tearing apart the top three buttons. I gasped in shock but didn't cover myself. "Samjhi?" he asked sternly.

I nodded. I should've screamed, hit him. I just nodded. He put a golden chain around my neck—even before my husband touched me. I gasped and squealed as he grabbed my half-naked tits, squeezed hard, so hard, then covered them back. "Samjhi?" I nodded again.

I barely slept that night. Early morning, someone knocked. I opened to sasurji, his perverted smirk. He sneaked in like we were having an affair, took my hand, dragged me to the bed, sat with me. "Maine socha nai naveli dulhan ke liye ek tohfa leke aau," he said, his hand slipping inside the back of the same shirt his elder son partially tore and I stitched back. I gasped as his hand reached my bra.

"Itni sundar. Itni agyakaari. Itni susheel. Itni..." he moaned slowly, squeezing my stomach, "...sexy." I moaned too. "Meri koi beti nahi. Aaj se tum meri bahu nahi, beti ho. Jo mera, wo sab tumhara. Aur jo tumhara..." he said, looking at my body, "...wo sab mera." I knew what he wanted. Should push him away. Should. But I didn't. I didn't want to.

"J-ji sasurji." I complied. "Aaahaannn..." he grabbed my thigh with his other hand. "Sasurji nahi. Papa kaho." Squeezing my thigh, his other hand grabbed my breast over my bra, making me gasp. He pulled a golden kamarband from his pocket.

"Ye tumhare mere hone ki nishani hai. Ye tumhe roz pehenna hai, aaj se. Shaadi samay bhi. Shaadi ke baad bhi. Har samay" I nodded, biting my lip, as he made me stand and pull my shirt up to expose my stomach. He grabbed my pyjama and pulled it lower, exposing more, stopping barely above my ass crack as he put the kamarband around my waist. "Ati sundar. Aise hi pehna karo. Aur Dhyaan rahe. Ye tumhare jism se kabhi utarna nahi chahiye." He kissed my navel. I gasped and moaned, replying: "Ji... sa... papaji."

The rest of the day was full of "accidental" touches between ceremonies and functions. I was physically tired, mentally exhausted from stimulation. When I went to my room for a nap before getting ready for the wedding, someone was already in my bed. I pulled the blanket—my devar, smiling at me.

"Bhabhi," he said, jumped on me, held me tight, shoved his face in my tits again. "Yahan kya kar rahe ho tum?" I asked. "Aapka wait." he said. He instantly pulled me on top of him, both of us falling on the bed, him under me. Every effort to get up failed against his grip on my waist, his kisses on my chest.

"Bhabhi, aapko bhaia se kyu shaadi karni hai? Aap mere se shaadi karlo." I blushed and giggled. An innocent request made vulgar by his face in my tits, his hand on my waist. After talking and playful struggle, we ended up hugging in bed—his hands all over my stomach and waist, his face in my cleavage again.

"Bhabhi, main aapke liye kuch laaya hu." He showed me a paayal. "Acha, aap meri biwi nahi ban sakti, par aap meri girlfriend banogi? Banogi naa? Banjao naa" I couldn't say no. I know I should. But I just nodded. Excited, he immediately got up, started sliding my saree up my legs. I gasped when he didn't stop at my knees, pushed my saree way higher.

"Payal pair mein pehnate hai." I taunted him, yet unable to scold him. "Ye payal nahi hai. Ye yahan ke liye hai." He kissed my mid-thigh, over and over. Put the tight silver thigh band around my thigh, a little above the middle, lay down on me again.

"Promise karo, aaj se roz pehnogi. Din raat. Chahe kuch bhi ho jaaye. Warna main yahan se jaunga nahi." His hands held me down. "Acha baba, promise. Ab mujhe thoda araam karne doge?". He nodded, kissed my cheeks and cleavage again, ran off.

I have no idea what I'm marrying into. But I'm definitely excited.

---

The Roleplay

Every man has a different personality. Jeth: dominating, misogynistic, even abusive. Sasur: tharki pervert, a little creepy and devilish. Devar: hopeless romantic, clingy, doesn't understand moral boundaries. Equal status after husband. Husband's personality is yours to propose—most interesting ones win.

Two starting options:

1. Pre-wedding: Starting from roka, shopping, mehendi—through gradual secret formation with each male family member. This is only if you have alterations in mind which I prefer over original. Nothing spoken aloud. Everything implied, arranged, understood.
2. Wedding onward: We continue from wedding setup. And make the wedding ceremony and the marital life more colorful.

If you read this far, send "Khandaan ki biwi" + Discord tag as your first line. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

As I said above, I only roleplay on Discord.

Note: Low effort messages ignored. Discord only. Hinglish required.

I met his family at my cousin's wedding - me in a purple saree who's pallu kept slipping. They all awestruck in eyes. They were formal, proper, laughing and drinking like everyone else. But every time I looked up, someone was heating their eyes on my exposed skin. I felt uncomfortable. I felt excited.

The proposal came from their side. Everyone eager to meet me, except his mother, which makes sense now. "Meri hone wali bhabhi," his little brother said, looking straight at my chest. I blushed. His elder brother, my future husband, said nothing. Just smiled. Looked at my waist, my hips, the way my saree clung where it shouldn't. "Acchi lag rahi ho," he said finally. Simple. Direct. His eyes said the rest. I felt naked while fully covered.

The roka happened a month later. His family came to our house—sasur with his stern face and wandering hands, jeth with his loud voice and louder stares, devar with his constant hovering. Even as I touched sasurji's feet, his hands lingered on my naked back instead of my head. I served chai. Sasurji's fingers brushed mine when he took the cup, held too long. "Garam hai," he said staring into my blouse, not talking about the tea. I simply stayed quiet, not hiding my exposed cleavage as my pallu slipped lower. I felt a gaze on my ass as I walked around serving everyone.

Jeth cornered me in the corridor. "Bhabhi banne wali ho," he said, leaning close, his shoulder pressing mine against the wall. "Ji" I said. "Ghar ki parampara samajhni hogi. Samjhi?" His hand found my waist, squeezed, let go before anyone turned the corner. Moved over my stomach as he walked away like nothing happened. Like he'd only adjusted my dupatta. Like I imagined the pressure, the promise, the samjhi that echoed in my stomach for hours.

The wedding shopping was worse. Better. Sasur insisted on coming, "Meri bahu hai, main dekhunga ki kya pehnegi", while my mother was asked to stay home. He stood behind me as I adjusted a lehenga, his hands finding hooks, pulling. "Thoda tight hai," he murmured, fingers pressing my spine, my skin, stopping where the blouse ended. "Zara dheere se saans lo. Kahi fatt na jaaye." His hand lingered on my upper back as he looked at me in the mirror. "Thoda purane zamane ka hai. Vaise kuch pehno, us shaadi ke din jaisa," he said, looking straight at my cleavage. I blushed and nodded. He picked a really small blouse—smaller, tighter, almost backless. "Ye hui na baat. Ab dekhne mein maza aa raha hai."

I should have told someone. Should have pulled away, complained, cried. Instead I stood still. Let him. Wanted him to continue, to cross the line, to make it real so I could stop pretending I imagined it.

The ring ceremony night, my to-be devar found me in the dressing room waiting for my mother. Everyone dancing outside. He pulled me up, made me stand, hugged me—wrapping his hands around my naked waist, his face directly in my cleavage. "Bhabhi," he breathed, young and desperate, "kitni pyaari lag rahi ho aap."

His chin rested on my breast. He looked at us in the mirror. It looked so wrong. So right. I gasped when he kissed my exposed cleavage, gave myself an excuse that it's because he can't reach my cheeks. He held me like that for five minutes, hands feeling my naked back, sometimes slipping lower for a second or two, his face rubbing my cleavage. I told myself it was the last time. That marriage would make it all stop.

The wedding ceremony. Everyone excited when we arrived at the hotel days before. All eyes on me. All over me. Jethji found me on the lawn late night, taking a walk. "Ghar ki aurtein itni raat akele ghoomti shobha nahi deti," he said sternly, grabbed my waist, pulled me into him. "Kahi kuch ho na jaaye."

He pushed me against a wall in a corner "Biwi toh tum uski banogi," he growled, "par is jism ki zimmedari meri hogi.". He grabbed my nighty's satin shirt and yanked, tearing apart the top three buttons. I gasped in shock but didn't cover myself. "Samjhi?" he asked sternly.

I nodded. I should've screamed, hit him. I just nodded. He put a golden chain around my neck—even before my husband touched me. I gasped and squealed as he grabbed my half-naked tits, squeezed hard, so hard, then covered them back. "Samjhi?" I nodded again.

I barely slept that night. Early morning, someone knocked. I opened to sasurji, his perverted smirk. He sneaked in like we were having an affair, took my hand, dragged me to the bed, sat with me. "Maine socha nai naveli dulhan ke liye ek tohfa leke aau," he said, his hand slipping inside the back of the same shirt his elder son partially tore and I stitched back. I gasped as his hand reached my bra.

"Itni sundar. Itni agyakaari. Itni susheel. Itni..." he moaned slowly, squeezing my stomach, "...sexy." I moaned too. "Meri koi beti nahi. Aaj se tum meri bahu nahi, beti ho. Jo mera, wo sab tumhara. Aur jo tumhara..." he said, looking at my body, "...wo sab mera." I knew what he wanted. Should push him away. Should. But I didn't. I didn't want to.

"J-ji sasurji." I complied. "Aaahaannn..." he grabbed my thigh with his other hand. "Sasurji nahi. Papa kaho." Squeezing my thigh, his other hand grabbed my breast over my bra, making me gasp. He pulled a golden kamarband from his pocket.

"Ye tumhare mere hone ki nishani hai. Ye tumhe roz pehenna hai, aaj se. Shaadi samay bhi. Shaadi ke baad bhi. Har samay" I nodded, biting my lip, as he made me stand and pull my shirt up to expose my stomach. He grabbed my pyjama and pulled it lower, exposing more, stopping barely above my ass crack as he put the kamarband around my waist. "Ati sundar. Aise hi pehna karo. Aur Dhyaan rahe. Ye tumhare jism se kabhi utarna nahi chahiye." He kissed my navel. I gasped and moaned, replying: "Ji... sa... papaji."

The rest of the day was full of "accidental" touches between ceremonies and functions. I was physically tired, mentally exhausted from stimulation. When I went to my room for a nap before getting ready for the wedding, someone was already in my bed. I pulled the blanket—my devar, smiling at me.

"Bhabhi," he said, jumped on me, held me tight, shoved his face in my tits again. "Yahan kya kar rahe ho tum?" I asked. "Aapka wait." he said. He instantly pulled me on top of him, both of us falling on the bed, him under me. Every effort to get up failed against his grip on my waist, his kisses on my chest.

"Bhabhi, aapko bhaia se kyu shaadi karni hai? Aap mere se shaadi karlo." I blushed and giggled. An innocent request made vulgar by his face in my tits, his hand on my waist. After talking and playful struggle, we ended up hugging in bed—his hands all over my stomach and waist, his face in my cleavage again.

"Bhabhi, main aapke liye kuch laaya hu." He showed me a paayal. "Acha, aap meri biwi nahi ban sakti, par aap meri girlfriend banogi? Banogi naa? Banjao naa" I couldn't say no. I know I should. But I just nodded. Excited, he immediately got up, started sliding my saree up my legs. I gasped when he didn't stop at my knees, pushed my saree way higher.

"Payal pair mein pehnate hai." I taunted him, yet unable to scold him. "Ye payal nahi hai. Ye yahan ke liye hai." He kissed my mid-thigh, over and over. Put the tight silver thigh band around my thigh, a little above the middle, lay down on me again.

"Promise karo, aaj se roz pehnogi. Din raat. Chahe kuch bhi ho jaaye. Warna main yahan se jaunga nahi." His hands held me down. "Acha baba, promise. Ab mujhe thoda araam karne doge?". He nodded, kissed my cheeks and cleavage again, ran off.

I have no idea what I'm marrying into. But I'm definitely excited.

---

The Roleplay

Every man has a different personality. Jeth: dominating, misogynistic, even abusive. Sasur: tharki pervert, a little creepy and devilish. Devar: hopeless romantic, clingy, doesn't understand moral boundaries. Equal status after husband. Husband's personality is yours to propose—most interesting ones win.

Two starting options:

1. Pre-wedding: Starting from roka, shopping, mehendi—through gradual secret formation with each male family member. This is only if you have alterations in mind which I prefer over original. Nothing spoken aloud. Everything implied, arranged, understood.
2. Wedding onward: We continue from wedding setup. And make the wedding ceremony and the marital life more colorful.

If you read this far, send "Khandaan ki biwi" + Discord tag as your first line. Kinks and limits can be discussed in DMs or discord. But I have only a few handful limits.

As I said above, I only roleplay on Discord.

Ours is the textbook definition of a normal middle-class Indian household. Papa leaves at 8:15 sharp in his ironed white shirt, office bag in one hand, dreams of a bigger flat in the other. Mummy does her 12-to-6 at her boutique, then races back to supervise to have chai ready when Papa rings the bell. I'm the "NEET girl" – 11th PCB, 97% last term, sent to every relative on WhatsApp to make them jealous. My brother is two years younger than me, cricket-team player, the one whose diary still smells of fresh ink because it's never marked late. A completely normal family.

We eat together, pray together, argue over the remote, and once a month we take that one perfect family photo and add it to our family wall to showcase for every Sharma, Gupta, Khanna who visits the house.

Well, there are some quirks we have.

Like how mom is an overspender and purchases a lot of jewellery and expensive sarees. Or how dad loves his scotch collection. He barely goes one day without having a nice drink. Or how I am movie junkie, I can't skip first day first show of any movie which is releaased, in theater. No matter the ticker cost, no matter how bad the movie is. And how my brother would rather play cricket or football all day rather than completing his homework. But still, a normal family, right?

Like how Mom can't walk past a jewellery store without "just looking", and somehow comes home with another silk saree we definitely don't have space for. Or how Dad treats his scotch collection like it's a second child—polished bottles lined up like trophies, each with a story he tells after his second glass. Or how I'm the family's official movie addict, dragging everyone to first-day-first-shows, no matter how bad the reviews are or how overpriced the popcorn gets. And my brother? He'd trade algebra for a cricket bat any day—homework only happens if there's a power cut or a broken ankle. But hey, every family has its quirks, right?

Well... There's one more thing. Something we never talk about. Not even with each other.

We all love touching and feeling each other's bodies.

It started so early none of us can name the first time. Papa's hand slipping over my top while he pretends to read the paper, thumb circling my nipple the way he circles share-market numbers. Me crawling into his lap "to watch the show" and staying to grind the hardness that always rises beneath his tracks. Mummy letting bhai "help unhook her blouse" until his fingers learn the exact weight of her breasts and the little gasp she makes when he pinches. Bhai and me in one bed because "AC is broken"; waking up with my shorts gone and his mouth on my neck, both of us pretending we're still asleep. Mummy and me in the trial-room, her hands caressing my curves while helping me with the new dress so she can "check the fit", thumbs brushing my nipples.

We never speak the words. We lock doors, switch off lights, breathe through open mouths to keep the bedsprings quiet. The next morning the same four people sit at breakfast discussing marks, milk prices and Modi's latest scheme as if no skin was licked, no clothes ripped and no boundaries broken

That's normal, right? Well, the air is always thick with unspoken invitations. Whether it is or not, it can't be helped anymore. Its just the way things are now. Better learn to love it.

What I need from you

1. Play BOTH male characters (Papa 42, Bhai 15).
2. Have discord. And if you can use tupper, fantastic!
3. Write 1–3 paragraphs per reply.
4. Keep the slow-burn, secretive, seductive and creative.
5. Respect my kinks & limits below; add your own ideas, not just "I'm interested".
6. When you send me a reddit DM, don't write something boring and lame or just your kinklist. Show me you actually liked the idea.

---

Kinks: Objectification, misogyny, free-use, humiliation, degradation, dub-con, musk play, kinky punishments, BDSM, secret-play, saliva play, cumplay, piss play, gangbang, prostitution, non-con, ageplay, incest, anal sex/stretching/gaping, spanking, bondage, groping, smacking, lactation, nipple torture/squirting, tit-fucking, pain, choking, cock-locking, pet collars, huge cocks (8"-12"), excessive cum, bukkake, breeding, being shared/sold/rented, electro-stimulation

New for me: Needles/piercings, bestiality, extreme BDSM, brutal non-con.

Limits: Snuff, scat, gore/blood/cuts, vore, necro, furry, cucking, blasphemy.