Hello, my name is Ambika, and I am 18 years old. I live in a sprawling joint family, which might be powerful—at least that’s what I gather from the whispers of the maids. I often catch fragments of their conversations, talking about how my father or elder brother has closed yet another deal or opened a new branch of their office. The words float around me like distant thunder, impressive but almost alien, because I don’t fully understand what they do.

Honestly, I don’t really know what field my family works in. Perhaps it’s because, as a girl, I am rarely allowed to leave the haveli. I am the only daughter of my father, who has four children in total. My elder brother, Abhiyansh Singh Rathore, is already taking charge of the family legacy, and then there are the twins, Veeransh and Shivansh Singh Rathore, the second and third eldest, who seem inseparable in mischief and rivalry alike.

I lost my mother when I was very young—I don’t know the reason, and no one ever talks about it. It’s just… a silence that sits in the corners of the house, heavy and unmovable. Growing up without her, I often feel like an observer in my own family, watching the world move around me but never really stepping into it.

My education has been at home, in a quiet room with textbooks as my only companions. Sometimes I wonder if this sheltering is protection or imprisonment—I am never sure. I know almost nothing about my family’s business, their struggles, or even their victories, except what I overhear in passing. And yet, I am part of this powerful household, a girl invisible in plain sight, watching and learning in ways they might never notice.

Currently, I was heading toward the dining table for lunch. God, I love the middle of the day—a small, quiet break.

As I neared the table, I stopped short. My elder brother was sitting there. Wait, what was he doing here? I almost always ate lunch alone. My dad and brothers, along with my two uncles and their sons, were usually out of the house working or running errands. As for my aunts, they were out shopping today.

"Bhaiya, what are you doing home today?" I asked, pulling out the chair and sitting beside him.

He turned, his eyes tracing a slow path from my face down to my knees. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. A flush of confusion and heat rose in my chest. I glanced down at my clothes.

I was wearing a thin, oversized white shirt of his, buttoned just enough to be decent, but with only a red panty underneath. I hadn't bothered with a bra because I'd been so certain I'd have the house to myself.

My gaze snagged on the shirt itself. Just below the chest, a faint ring of dampness had bloomed on the white fabric—right where my nipples pressed against the cotton. I felt a sudden, familiar tightness in my breasts. Did I forget to mention that since turning eighteen, I’ve been able to produce milk? When I first told Dad, he hadn’t seemed bothered at all. "It's a good thing, a healthy thing," he'd said, "Milk is good for you."

Now, though, under my brother's intense stare, the sight of the dampness was suddenly mortifying. My cheeks burned.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he finally replied, his voice a low drawl that made the hair on my arms stand up. His eyes stayed fixed on the spot where the shirt was wet.

"I…I don't know, but …my m…ilk…" I whimpered, my lower lip trembling in a slight pout.

Before I could finish, a large hand shot out, not in aggression, but with a shocking intimacy. It cupped my breast—the one still covered by the wet shirt—and his thumb and forefinger located my nipple, pinching it hard enough to make me shudder right down to my core. It was a searing combination of pain and electric pleasure. I let out a choked sound, a mix between a whimper and a gasp, but the hand didn't release. Instead, he deftly opened the top buttons of my shirt, exposing the damp, white curve of my heavy, aching breast.

He pressed his large, muscular palm against it, kneading deeply. The stimulation was immediate and overwhelming; the milk flow increased significantly, soaking the front of the ruined shirt and dripping onto the table.

Tears welled in my eyes—tears of distress, shame, and a bewildering arousal. Just as I started to cry in earnest, his other hand came around, effortlessly scooping me up and settling me onto his lap. I clung to him immediately, burying my face into his solid, black-shirted chest and sobbing.

My brother's fingers began to stroke my back in slow, comforting circles, his voice a low, gravelly rumble next to my ear. "It's okay, princess," he murmured, "I understand. You don't want to give your milk to your elder brother. I'm sorry." Yet even as he spoke the soothing words, the hand on my exposed breast did not stop its firm, relentless pressing.

"No! I want to... but it hurts..." I insisted, the words tumbling out in a rush. I tightened my grip on his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline as the strange, intense sensation continued.

He smiled, a gentle, understanding curve of his lips. "Don't worry, it will soon feel good," he murmured, his voice a balm. "Princess, can I remove your panty? My cock is cold and wants some warmth from your pussy."

I felt my cheeks flush crimson, but the shame was quickly overpowered by a strange, anticipatory heat. I simply nodded, unable to form a word.

He carefully lifted me and placed me onto the edge of the dining table. With a quick, sure motion, he peeled off the strip of red satin—my panty—and tucked it into his back pocket. The sudden, cool air on my most sensitive skin sent an electric shiver down my spine. I drew a sharp breath, shivering slightly, but before I could react, he pulled me back down.

This time, the landing was anything but gentle. He settled me onto his lap, and the next instant, his big, black, and thick cock drove home. There was no warning, just a sudden, powerful invasion that pushed past my readiness. I let out a sharp, choked gasp as he slammed his length inside me with full force. The shock of the deep penetration made my inner muscles clench fiercely around him, and I heard the low, guttural catch of his breath above me.

After the initial, jarring thrust, he began to move, caressing my back with one hand while initiating a slow, deliberate grind. Each internal rotation of his hips was an exquisite pressure. I sank into the rhythm, a deep hum of satisfaction rising in my throat.

"I'm hungry," I mumbled, the words sounding small and distant amidst the intensity.

He chuckled, a rich, chest-deep sound. Without breaking his slow, powerful tempo, he reached for a sandwich from the nearby plate, broke off a piece, and fed me by hand. His eyes held mine as he continued to thrust, slowly, deeply inside me. His other hand remained on my left breast, not pressing aggressively now, but kneading and circling the sensitive flesh with a careful, massaging touch. It was a slow, rhythmic attention, as if he were trying to soothe the earlier sting and prove that this pleasure could be gentle, too. The contrast—food and sex, violence and care—made my head swim.