It all started with ragging

After our marriage, Rohan became even more possessive and obsessive with his “Rani.” He no longer wanted me just dressed up — he wanted the real thing. One night, while I was riding him slowly in a sheer black saree, my padded breasts bouncing with every thrust, he cupped them and growled against my neck, “These are fake. I want to feel real tits when I fuck my wife.”
That was the beginning.
He arranged everything. A discreet doctor in Bangalore, hormone therapy, and strict instructions on dosage. I started estrogen and anti-androgens under the table. At first it was just subtle changes — softer skin, less body hair, slight swelling under my nipples. But within six months, my chest had grown sensitive and tender. By the end of the first year, I had real, perky C-cup breasts that filled my blouses naturally. No more padding. They bounced, jiggled, and ached deliciously when Rohan played with them.
The first time he saw me fully naked after the growth spurt, his eyes darkened with raw hunger. He pushed me against the mirror, yanked my pallu down, and tore open the hooks of my maroon blouse. My bare breasts spilled out — soft, round, with dark sensitive nipples already hard. He groaned like an animal, sucking and biting them while his fingers found my hole under the saree.
“Fuck… these are mine now,” he muttered, squeezing them hard as he bent me over and took me from behind. My new breasts swung heavily with every powerful thrust, the sensation completely different — electric pleasure shooting through my chest straight to my cock, which was now smaller and more sensitive from the hormones. I came hands-free that night, moaning like a bride on her suhaag raat while he filled me up.
Our sex life became even more intense. Rohan loved dressing me in tight, low-cut blouses that showed deep cleavage. He’d make me wear sarees without a bra sometimes, so my nipples would poke through the thin fabric while I served him dinner. At night he was insatiable — sucking my tits till they were red and marked, fucking me in every position while watching them bounce. He especially loved tit-fucking me now, sliding his thick cock between my soft breasts while I looked up at him with kohl-lined eyes and freshly applied lipstick.
I grew my hair longer too, and started laser treatment for smoother skin. My body became curvier — wider hips, fuller ass, and those beautiful breasts that were now undeniably real. When we visited his family during festivals, I attended as the perfect traditional wife in heavy silk sarees, my cleavage modestly covered but still noticeable to anyone who looked closely. Only Rohan knew what those breasts looked like when the blouse came off — swollen, sensitive, and leaking a little milk after he started me on special pills just for his kink.
Now, years into our marriage, I’m his complete Rani. Every morning I wake up with his hand possessively cupping one of my breasts. And every night he reminds me how it all started — from that scared crossdressed fresher in a red saree to his real-breasted, fully feminized wife who moans his name while getting fucked senseless.
He still calls me to the bedroom with that same wicked senior voice: “Rani… saree pehen ke aa jaa.”
And I always obey, my real breasts already tingling in anticipation.