u/Little_Section114

(Disclaimer: A Long read.)

The room is dim, the only light spilling from the half-open door, casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and the faint musk of his cologne. She’s on her knees in front of him, her school dress slightly rumpled, the pleats of her skirt riding up her thighs, her socks still pulled up to her knees. The formal shirt he wears is unbuttoned just enough, his belt undone, his pants pushed down to his thighs. She looks up at him, her eyes wide but determined, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

"Uncle, why are you resisting?" she says, her voice a mix of innocence and manipulation. "This is okay. No one will know." Her fingers trace the outline of his zipper, her touch hesitant but deliberate. "You did not hesitate when you touched me last time, remember? In the car. Your hands, they were all over me." Her voice is soft, but the words are sharp, cutting through the tension in the room. "See, the marks are still there you know."

He groans, his head falling back against the chair, but his grip on her hair tightens. "Beta, this is wrong. You’re too young. People will—"

"People?" she interrupts, her laugh light, almost mocking. "Uncle, who will know? You think anyone cares about a school girl and her caring best friend's dad?" Her hand slips inside his pants, her fingers wrapping around him, her touch firm. "Like the time when you watched me change in the bathroom. Or when you groped me in the kitchen, thinking no one was looking." She strokes him slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You enjoyed it then. Why not now?"

His breath hitches, his body betraying him as she works her hand up and down. "That was different. I was drunk. I didn’t—"

"You didn’t what?" she cuts in, her voice sharp. "You didn’t think I’d notice? Or you didn’t think I’d remember?" Her other hand cups him, her thumb tracing the vein on his shaft. "You think I forgot how you used to sneak into my room at night? How you’d touch me under the blanket, telling me it was our little secret?" She leans in closer, her breath hot against his skin. "Or what about the time with Aunty? You think I didn’t see the condoms in your drawer, the used ones in the bin? - While your wife was pregnant."

A grunt escapes his lips, his hips lifting slightly off the chair, his body responding to her words, her touch. "Stop it. This isn’t right. You’re just ... just a... li..."

"A what... huh?" she scoffs, her hand still moving, "I think you made sure i grew up pretty fast" her voice laced with bitterness. "You think I don’t know about the others? The girls you’ve done this to? The ones who couldn’t say no?" Her eyes flick up to his, her expression cold. "Or what about your own daughter? Do you think about her when you’re doing this to me?"

"You're sick" His body tenses, but she doesn’t stop. "Oh no! no no no....YOU’re sick, Uncle. But so am I....." Her voice is a whisper, her hand moving faster now. "Because I like it. I like the way you look at me. The way you can’t resist." She leans in, her lips brushing against his thigh, her voice a dark purr. "Why are you enjoying this so much? You should be ashamed."

He doesn’t answer, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she takes him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip. His hands grip the arms of the chair, his knuckles white. Strings of drool connect her lips to his shaft as she pulls back, her hand still working him. "You’re a monster," he gasps, but there’s no conviction in his voice, only pleasure.

She pulls back, her lips glistening with spit, her voice a dark chuckle. "And you made me this way." She strokes him again, her grip firm. "Now be quiet, Uncle. And let me take care of you." She spits on her hand, rubbing it along his length, her movements quickening as she watches his face twist in pleasure. "That’s it, let it all out. I want to see your cum."

His grunts grow louder, his body tensing as she works him over, her school dress riding up further, exposing more of her thighs. "Beta, please, we can’t—"

"We can," she murmurs, her voice firm. "And we will." She takes him deep into her mouth, her tongue swirling, her hand cupping his balls. "Because if people came to know what you’ve done, what you’re still doing..." She pulls back, letting a string of spit connect her lips to him. "They’d lock you up. Or worse." Her hand moves faster, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I won’t tell. Not if you let me finish."

----

(Dont be alarmed by the new account. Old account was deleted. Happy hunting.)

Discord: little_section

I am 18+ and all characters are 18+

(Disclaimer: A Long read.)

The room is dim, the only light spilling from the half-open door, casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and the faint musk of his cologne. She’s on her knees in front of him, her school dress slightly rumpled, the pleats of her skirt riding up her thighs, her socks still pulled up to her knees. The formal shirt he wears is unbuttoned just enough, his belt undone, his pants pushed down to his thighs. She looks up at him, her eyes wide but determined, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

"Uncle, why are you resisting?" she says, her voice a mix of innocence and manipulation. "This is okay. No one will know." Her fingers trace the outline of his zipper, her touch hesitant but deliberate. "You did not hesitate when you touched me last time, remember? In the car. Your hands, they were all over me." Her voice is soft, but the words are sharp, cutting through the tension in the room. "See, the marks are still there you know."

He groans, his head falling back against the chair, but his grip on her hair tightens. "Beta, this is wrong. You’re too young. People will—"

"People?" she interrupts, her laugh light, almost mocking. "Uncle, who will know? You think anyone cares about a school girl and her caring best friend's dad?" Her hand slips inside his pants, her fingers wrapping around him, her touch firm. "Like the time when you watched me change in the bathroom. Or when you groped me in the kitchen, thinking no one was looking." She strokes him slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You enjoyed it then. Why not now?"

His breath hitches, his body betraying him as she works her hand up and down. "That was different. I was drunk. I didn’t—"

"You didn’t what?" she cuts in, her voice sharp. "You didn’t think I’d notice? Or you didn’t think I’d remember?" Her other hand cups him, her thumb tracing the vein on his shaft. "You think I forgot how you used to sneak into my room at night? How you’d touch me under the blanket, telling me it was our little secret?" She leans in closer, her breath hot against his skin. "Or what about the time with Aunty? You think I didn’t see the condoms in your drawer, the used ones in the bin? - While your wife was pregnant."

A grunt escapes his lips, his hips lifting slightly off the chair, his body responding to her words, her touch. "Stop it. This isn’t right. You’re just ... just a... li..."

"A what... huh?" she scoffs, her hand still moving, "I think you made sure i grew up pretty fast" her voice laced with bitterness. "You think I don’t know about the others? The girls you’ve done this to? The ones who couldn’t say no?" Her eyes flick up to his, her expression cold. "Or what about your own daughter? Do you think about her when you’re doing this to me?"

"You're sick" His body tenses, but she doesn’t stop. "Oh no! no no no....YOU’re sick, Uncle. But so am I....." Her voice is a whisper, her hand moving faster now. "Because I like it. I like the way you look at me. The way you can’t resist." She leans in, her lips brushing against his thigh, her voice a dark purr. "Why are you enjoying this so much? You should be ashamed."

He doesn’t answer, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she takes him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip. His hands grip the arms of the chair, his knuckles white. Strings of drool connect her lips to his shaft as she pulls back, her hand still working him. "You’re a monster," he gasps, but there’s no conviction in his voice, only pleasure.

She pulls back, her lips glistening with spit, her voice a dark chuckle. "And you made me this way." She strokes him again, her grip firm. "Now be quiet, Uncle. And let me take care of you." She spits on her hand, rubbing it along his length, her movements quickening as she watches his face twist in pleasure. "That’s it, let it all out. I want to see your cum."

His grunts grow louder, his body tensing as she works him over, her school dress riding up further, exposing more of her thighs. "Beta, please, we can’t—"

"We can," she murmurs, her voice firm. "And we will." She takes him deep into her mouth, her tongue swirling, her hand cupping his balls. "Because if people came to know what you’ve done, what you’re still doing..." She pulls back, letting a string of spit connect her lips to him. "They’d lock you up. Or worse." Her hand moves faster, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I won’t tell. Not if you let me finish."

----

(Dont be alarmed by the new account. Old account was deleted. Happy hunting.)

The train rattles through the dark, the hum of the engine a lullaby for the sleeping passengers. You’re a mother, curled in your berth, your daughter dozing beside you—innocent, unaware. Then \*he\* appears. A stranger with a smirk that promises trouble, a voice like velvet wrapped around a threat.

You talk. Things click. He starts with a glance. Then a whisper. "You’re tense. Let me help with that." His fingers brush - just enough to make your breath hitch. You should stop him. But you don’t.

The game escalates. A stolen kiss in the dim aisle? His palm cupping over your thin blouse? perhaps... your daughter stirs in her sleep, oblivious. The chill of the AC. The risk in the air. Your ears are warm. So are your thighs.

Then - the washroom. The lock clicks. The sound of your piss hitting the metal bowl, the way his eyes darken as he listens. "Good girl." His cock is already out when you return, and you drop to your knees without a word, the train swaying as you take him in your mouth.

But the real thrill? Climbing into his berth later, your daughter just a few feet away, her breathing slow and even. His hands are rough, his mouth hot on your neck as he pins you down, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your moans. "She’ll hear you," he growls. "Do you want her to?"

"Mommy?" Her sleepy eyes flicker open. Does she see? Does she understand? Or does she ....

\_\_\_\_\_\_

This is a new account. Old account got deleted. So apologies if it seems like a bot account.

I am open to most kinks but more keen to taste your filthy imagination. See you in my DMs.

Disclaimer: LONG READ

The schoolbag straps dig into the boy’s shoulders, the weight of books nothing compared to the weight in his chest. Ten years old, and the world already feels like it’s pressing down on him, the humid air sticking to his skin. His mother walks beside him, her sari clinging to the small of her back, damp with sweat. She hums some old song, off-key, the kind of tune that makes his teeth ache, but he’d never say it. \*Ma’s voice is nice\*, he thinks, even if it isn’t.

The lane is quiet, just the sound of their sandals scuffing against the pavement, the occasional bark of a stray dog. His mother’s hand brushes his head, her fingers rough from work, the scent of turmeric and soap lingering. "You’re growing tall, beta," she says, and he ducks his head, embarrassed, like he always does when she notices him. His shirt is untucked, the hem frayed where he picked at it during math class. He doesn’t care. Ma doesn’t either, not really.

\---

Inside the house, the ceiling fan spins lazy circles, the air thick with the smell of fried onions and something else—something sweet, like the jasmine she sometimes tucks behind her ear. Barely an adult, and she’s all sharp angles and soft curves under her thin cotton salwar. Her skin glows, slick with the sheen of puberty, her body restless, like it doesn’t quite fit her anymore.

He’s older, forty maybe, his stomach just starting to soften, his hair still black but for the silver at his temples. His hands are big, calloused, the kind that can fix a leaky tap or trace the line of her collarbone with a single finger. She leans against the kitchen doorframe, watching him peel an orange, the juice running down his wrist. His thumb brushes against her palm as he hands her a segment, and she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers curl around his, just for a second, before she lets go.

The fan’s whir fills the silence, the only witness to the way her breath hitches when his hand slides down, down, to the small of her back. His touch is sure, possessive, and she arches into it, her body betraying her before her mind can catch up. The chair squeaks under his weight as he pulls her closer, his other hand finding her waist, his thumb pressing into the dip just above her hip. She’s warm, too warm, and her skin prickles under his touch.

The kitchen is empty. The door is closed.

\---

The boy’s sandals slap against the front steps, his mother’s voice trailing off mid-sentence as she digs in her purse for the house keys. The metal jingles, the sound too loud in the stillness. His sister’s laughter spills from the kitchen window, high and breathless, and then a man’s chuckle, deep and knowing. The boy frowns. \*That man\* is here again. The one who’s always around, the one who brings sweets and lingers too long. The house feels different today. The air is heavier, like before the monsoon, when the sky presses down and you can’t breathe.

His mother’s key scrapes in the lock. The boy shifts his bag to one shoulder, his other hand reaching for the doorbell. His finger hovers. Through the wood, he can hear it—the creak of a chair, the clink of a glass, the rustle of fabric. His sister’s voice, low now, murmuring something he can’t catch. The man’s reply is a rumble, the kind of sound that vibrates in your chest.

The boy doesn’t wait. He takes the stairs two at a time, his mother’s voice calling after him, but he’s too fast, too eager to be home. The door is just within reach when he hears it—the sharp intake of breath, the sudden stillness, like the house itself is holding its breath. He knocks, once, twice, his small fists rapping against the wood. No answer.

Behind the door, she’s pressed against the wall, his mouth on her neck, her hands tangled in his hair. His knee is between her thighs, and she’s gasping, her body trembling, her nails digging into his shoulders. The chair topples over with a crash, and they freeze. The knocking comes again, insistent, and she shoves at his chest, her voice a whisper, urgent. \*"Stop. It’s—it’s him."\*

The man pulls back, his breath ragged, his hands lingering for a second too long before he steps away. She straightens her salwar, her fingers shaking as she tucks her hair behind her ears. The knocking stops. Then, the doorbell rings, sharp and demanding.

\---

The door swings open, and there she is—his sister, her face flushed, her lips a little too red, like she’s been biting them. Her salwar is slightly askew, the fabric clinging to her hips, and her hair is a mess, like she’s been running her hands through it. She blinks at them, wide-eyed, like she wasn’t expecting them so soon. Behind her, the hallway stretches, dark and still.

"Oh," she says, and her voice is steady, too steady. "Ma, you’re back." A pause. A beat. Her fingers tighten on the doorframe. "And... \*he\* is also here."

The boy looks past her, into the shadows where the hallway stretches. The air smells like oranges and something else—something musky, something \*wrong\*. His mother steps forward, her sandals scuffing against the floor, and the boy watches as his sister’s throat bobs, once, like she’s swallowing something sharp.

"Beta," his mother says, her voice warm, oblivious. "Where is..."

The sister smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. "He’s... just freshening up."

----------

I am 18+ and All characters are 18+

Disclaimer: LONG READ

The schoolbag straps dig into the boy’s shoulders, the weight of books nothing compared to the weight in his chest. Ten years old, and the world already feels like it’s pressing down on him, the humid air sticking to his skin. His mother walks beside him, her sari clinging to the small of her back, damp with sweat. She hums some old song, off-key, the kind of tune that makes his teeth ache, but he’d never say it. *Ma’s voice is nice*, he thinks, even if it isn’t.

The lane is quiet, just the sound of their sandals scuffing against the pavement, the occasional bark of a stray dog. His mother’s hand brushes his head, her fingers rough from work, the scent of turmeric and soap lingering. "You’re growing tall, beta," she says, and he ducks his head, embarrassed, like he always does when she notices him. His shirt is untucked, the hem frayed where he picked at it during math class. He doesn’t care. Ma doesn’t either, not really.

---

Inside the house, the ceiling fan spins lazy circles, the air thick with the smell of fried onions and something else—something sweet, like the jasmine she sometimes tucks behind her ear. Barely an adult, and she’s all sharp angles and soft curves under her thin cotton salwar. Her skin glows, slick with the sheen of puberty, her body restless, like it doesn’t quite fit her anymore.

He’s older, forty maybe, his stomach just starting to soften, his hair still black but for the silver at his temples. His hands are big, calloused, the kind that can fix a leaky tap or trace the line of her collarbone with a single finger. She leans against the kitchen doorframe, watching him peel an orange, the juice running down his wrist. His thumb brushes against her palm as he hands her a segment, and she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers curl around his, just for a second, before she lets go.

The fan’s whir fills the silence, the only witness to the way her breath hitches when his hand slides down, down, to the small of her back. His touch is sure, possessive, and she arches into it, her body betraying her before her mind can catch up. The chair squeaks under his weight as he pulls her closer, his other hand finding her waist, his thumb pressing into the dip just above her hip. She’s warm, too warm, and her skin prickles under his touch.

The kitchen is empty. The door is closed.

---

The boy’s sandals slap against the front steps, his mother’s voice trailing off mid-sentence as she digs in her purse for the house keys. The metal jingles, the sound too loud in the stillness. His sister’s laughter spills from the kitchen window, high and breathless, and then a man’s chuckle, deep and knowing. The boy frowns. *That man* is here again. The one who’s always around, the one who brings sweets and lingers too long. The house feels different today. The air is heavier, like before the monsoon, when the sky presses down and you can’t breathe.

His mother’s key scrapes in the lock. The boy shifts his bag to one shoulder, his other hand reaching for the doorbell. His finger hovers. Through the wood, he can hear it—the creak of a chair, the clink of a glass, the rustle of fabric. His sister’s voice, low now, murmuring something he can’t catch. The man’s reply is a rumble, the kind of sound that vibrates in your chest.

The boy doesn’t wait. He takes the stairs two at a time, his mother’s voice calling after him, but he’s too fast, too eager to be home. The door is just within reach when he hears it—the sharp intake of breath, the sudden stillness, like the house itself is holding its breath. He knocks, once, twice, his small fists rapping against the wood. No answer.

Behind the door, she’s pressed against the wall, his mouth on her neck, her hands tangled in his hair. His knee is between her thighs, and she’s gasping, her body trembling, her nails digging into his shoulders. The chair topples over with a crash, and they freeze. The knocking comes again, insistent, and she shoves at his chest, her voice a whisper, urgent. *"Stop. It’s—it’s him."*

The man pulls back, his breath ragged, his hands lingering for a second too long before he steps away. She straightens her salwar, her fingers shaking as she tucks her hair behind her ears. The knocking stops. Then, the doorbell rings, sharp and demanding.

---

The door swings open, and there she is—his sister, her face flushed, her lips a little too red, like she’s been biting them. Her salwar is slightly askew, the fabric clinging to her hips, and her hair is a mess, like she’s been running her hands through it. She blinks at them, wide-eyed, like she wasn’t expecting them so soon. Behind her, the hallway stretches, dark and still.

"Oh," she says, and her voice is steady, too steady. "Ma, you’re back." A pause. A beat. Her fingers tighten on the doorframe. "And... *he* is also here."

The boy looks past her, into the shadows where the hallway stretches. The air smells like oranges and something else—something musky, something *wrong*. His mother steps forward, her sandals scuffing against the floor, and the boy watches as his sister’s throat bobs, once, like she’s swallowing something sharp.

"Beta," his mother says, her voice warm, oblivious. "Where is..."

The sister smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. "He’s... just freshening up."

The train rattles through the dark, the hum of the engine a lullaby for the sleeping passengers. You’re a mother, curled in your berth, your daughter dozing beside you—innocent, unaware. Then *he* appears. A stranger with a smirk that promises trouble, a voice like velvet wrapped around a threat.

You talk. Things click. He starts with a glance. Then a whisper. "You’re tense. Let me help with that." His fingers brush - just enough to make your breath hitch. You should stop him. But you don’t.

The game escalates. A stolen kiss in the dim aisle? His palm cupping over your thin blouse? perhaps... your daughter stirs in her sleep, oblivious. The chill of the AC. The risk in the air. Your ears are warm. So are your thighs.

Then - the washroom. The lock clicks. The sound of your piss hitting the metal bowl, the way his eyes darken as he listens. "Good girl." His cock is already out when you return, and you drop to your knees without a word, the train swaying as you take him in your mouth.

But the real thrill? Climbing into his berth later, your daughter just a few feet away, her breathing slow and even. His hands are rough, his mouth hot on your neck as he pins you down, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your moans. "She’ll hear you," he growls. "Do you want her to?"

"Mommy?" Her sleepy eyes flicker open. Does she see? Does she understand? Or does she ....

______

This is a new account. Old account got deleted. So apologies if it seems like a bot account.

I am open to most kinks but more keen to taste your filthy imagination. See you in my DMs.