Forbidden Desire: Secret Encounters with My Aunty

My name is Vyshak. I’m 19, studying engineering and living in a hostel. But this story isn't about my college or classes. It’s about a silent longing… and a strange connection that slowly grew between me and someone in my own home.

We live in a joint family in Kerala. My parents, younger sister, (father is working abroad) my father's younger brother and his wife — my aunt — and their little daughter. My grandma too. A big family. But somehow, amidst all that crowd, I often felt like I was quietly floating — invisible, unheard.

Whenever I returned home for weekends or holidays, I would notice things differently. Maybe it was the silence of the home compared to the noisy hostel, or maybe it was something deeper.

One such evening, after arriving home for a break, I entered the bathroom to shower. On the rack hung her clothes — my aunt’s nighty, bra, and a panty folded beside it. I removed my dress and hung it there. That time, my face was very close to her panty. I caught a whiff of her scent. That moment changed something in me. I froze.

I didn’t plan it. But the scent of the space… her presence left behind… something stirred inside me. Arousal mixed with guilt. I inhaled deeply. And later, back in my room, I touched myself, thinking of her. It felt wrong. Yet I couldn’t stop.

The days after that were strange. I started observing her more — how she moved, how her saree hugged her curves, the way she smiled politely. Nothing she did was inappropriate. But my mind had already crossed a line. When she wore her nighty, her curves were even more attractive. I felt a growing attraction to her.

I began helping her more. In the kitchen, I’d offer to cut vegetables, lift heavy jars, or even just stand near the stove, pretending to help. The kitchen would get hot, but I would get warmer just being around her.

Her scent — a mix of turmeric, soap, and something soft and womanly — made my head spin. Once, she bent to pick something, and through her nighty, her cleavage was visible. Really good-shaped big boobs. My heart thudded. She turned, and our eyes met. For a second, it felt like she knew. But she just smiled gently and turned away.

The next weekend, the moment repeated. Another panty left drying. Another act of secret arousal. But that time, I messed up. After I had spilled myself over it and placed it back in the washroom, she entered just minutes later. I was still nearby, pretending to clean my glasses.

She picked up the panty… paused… touched it, frowned, then smelled her fingers. I was frozen in fear. She turned slowly — and caught me looking.

But she didn’t scold. She didn’t speak. Just walked away.

The next day, her clothes weren’t in the washroom. I felt sick with guilt and shame.

I stayed away from home the next weekend. Couldn’t face her. But later, during semester holidays, I returned. Nervous. Heart beating fast.

To my shock… she acted normal. Asked if I ate. Touched my shoulder like always. Her panty was again in the washroom. I couldn’t resist. And I repeated my act.

That night, I got a message.

“I know what you’ve been doing. I noticed it long back.”

I froze.

“It’s okay. It’s normal to feel this at your age. But be careful. Don't lose yourself.”

I replied: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect.”

“I didn’t feel disrespected. I felt seen.”

Those words hit me hard. She wasn’t angry. She was understanding. She didn’t encourage it… but she didn’t shame me either. That night, I couldn’t sleep.

After that, things became… different. Warmer. Not sexually active. But emotionally intense.

She started calling me to help more. One afternoon, while grandma and my mom were napping, she asked, “Vyshak, can you help me in the kitchen?”

She wore a cotton saree — faded blue. The blouse clung to her back with thin threads tied together. The kitchen was warm, and as she leaned over to open the lower cabinet, the blouse lifted slightly. I caught a glimpse of her side — soft skin, the outline of her bra.

“Can you get the jar from that shelf?” she asked, pointing above her head.

I stood behind her, reached over. My chest brushed her back lightly. She didn’t move. I handed her the jar, hands almost touching. Our eyes didn’t meet. But something was exchanged.

As I washed vegetables, she moved closer. Her hand brushed mine — not accidentally. I didn’t dare speak. Her breath touched my cheek. My heart beat loudly.

One day, she asked, “Vyshak, I have to go to the temple. Can you drop me on the bike?”

I agreed, hiding my smile. She sat sideways behind me, as women in sarees often do. Her arm around my waist, lightly resting. Her fingers grazed my stomach.

With each bump, her body pressed against mine. I felt her breath on my neck, her softness behind me. The ride was only 15 minutes — but it felt like an hour in heaven and hell. I wanted to keep driving forever. I wanted to stop and fall into her arms.

When we reached, she didn’t get down immediately. “You drive well,” she whispered. “Made me feel safe.”

That word — safe — meant the world to me.

We never talked openly about what we were doing. No confessions. No crossing lines. Just glances. Slight touches. Unwashed garments that still made their way to the rack. A quiet invitation to my world of arousal and guilt.

Once, when I handed her a towel in the evening, her fingers lingered on mine. Our eyes locked. We were alone. The TV buzzed in the background. Nothing was said. But everything was felt.

I helped her with laundry. Saw her folding her bras. Once, she asked, “Can you pass me that pink one?” I did, and she looked into my eyes when taking it. “You're not a boy anymore,” she said softly. “You’ve grown.”

She started sharing her personal things. They wanted their second child, but there was some issue with my uncle. The doctor suggested IVF, but they were still trying. She felt the pain of the situation. I placed my hand on her shoulder. She leaned into me.

She asked, “Do you love me?” I said yes. She approached me for a kiss. We kissed. Slowly, She led me to her bedroom, the door clicking shut behind us. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn, creating a private sanctuary. She turned to face me, her eyes soft and inviting. I reached out, my hand trembling slightly as I cupped her cheek. She leaned into my touch, her skin warm and smooth.

Our lips met in a gentle kiss that deepened with each passing second. Her tongue explored my mouth, tasting and teasing. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close, feeling the soft curves of her body against mine. She moaned softly, the sound sending shivers down my spine.

Her hands roamed over my back, pulling at my shirt until it was off and discarded on the floor. I did the same for her, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, revealing her lacy black bra. I traced the edge of the fabric with my fingers, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. She arched her back, pressing her breasts against my chest, and I couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss the swell of her cleavage.

She guided my hands to her skirt, and I slowly pulled it down, revealing her long, toned legs and the black lace panties that matched her bra. I knelt before her, kissing her thighs, her hips, her stomach, until I reached the edge of her panties. I looked up at her, seeking permission, and she nodded, her breath coming in short gasps.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulled them down, revealing her completely. I kissed her there, tasting her, feeling her tremble under my touch. She ran her fingers through my hair, guiding me, urging me on. I explored her with my tongue, finding the sensitive spot that made her cry out in pleasure.

She pulled me up, her hands fumbling with the button of my jeans. I helped her, kicking them off along with my boxers. She wrapped her hand around my length, stroking gently, sending waves of pleasure through me. I groaned, my head falling back.

She pushed me gently onto the bed, climbing on top of me. She straddled my hips, her wetness pressing against me. I reached up, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples through the lace of her bra. She ground against me, her movements slow and sensual.

I sat up, capturing one of her nipples in my mouth, sucking and nipping through the fabric. She gasped, her head falling back, her hips moving faster against me. I reached around, unhooking her bra, freeing her breasts. I lavished attention on them, alternating between sucking and biting, making her moan and writhe.

She reached between us, positioning me at her entrance. She lowered herself onto me, inch by inch, until I was fully sheathed inside her. We both groaned at the sensation, our bodies fitting together perfectly. She began to move, riding me slowly, her hips rolling in a rhythmic dance.

I gripped her hips, helping her set the pace, feeling her tighten around me. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against my chest, her breath hot on my neck. I could feel her getting closer, her movements becoming more frantic. I reached between us, finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles.

She cried out, her body clenching around me as she came, her orgasm triggering my own. I thrust up into her, spilling myself inside her, feeling her milk me dry. We collapsed together, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged gasps.

We lay there for a while, our limbs entangled, our hearts beating in sync. She traced patterns on my chest, her touch light and feathery. I kissed the top of her head, feeling content and sated.

Our encounters became a secret ritual, stolen moments of passion and pleasure. 

That last day, she said, “We had sex during my ovulation days. I might be pregnant, but it can only be confirmed after a few days. If I want to abort it, we can do it now. Or,” she paused, “we could choose to give birth to the baby.”
I asked her if my uncle knew. She assured me he would never find out. They were undergoing fertility treatment and had also had sex during the same period.

After thinking for a while, I told her, “Let’s not end this life. I want the baby. I’ll raise him or her as my sibling.”

Upon hearing that, she hugged me tightly and kissed me, her eyes filled with emotion.

After returning to the hostel, I tried to focus on my routine, but my mind was always with her. A few days later, I received a message from her. It was a photo of a pregnancy test—two clear pink lines. My heart skipped a beat. I immediately called her, and in a quiet, emotional voice, she said, “You’re going to be a father.”

It was a Friday. She told me she wanted to see me, to hold me close and share this moment in person. Without a second thought, I booked a ticket to my hometown.

When I reached, I found a quiet moment to give her a small box of sweets—hidden from everyone else. It was our silent celebration. That day, I gave her all the love and warmth I could. We didn’t need words. Just being near each other was enough.

Now, she’s eight months pregnant. Her belly has grown, round and full with new life. She's staying at her family home, and it’s no longer easy to see her often. We talk on the phone whenever we can, whispering dreams and reassurances across the distance.

One day, our families visited her home together. Amidst the crowd, we stole a quiet moment. I knelt beside her and gently placed my hand on her belly. I kissed it softly, reverently. And then I felt it—the tiny movement of the baby inside.

Her eyes welled up with tears. And so did mine.