Their Invincible Love
She came from the Conference, tired, but jolly, because her well-thought, concrete speech got the wider clapping than the President's perfunctory one. She came buoyed, blossomed with anticipation, to give herself an evening of romance, then a carnal night, with her sacrosanct beloved of incestuous love, deeper than any bond conceivable in any human relationship.
She had kept him away for three days for her preparations of this important event, an unimaginably long time for him not to touch her nipples, wet them with the honey of his saliva; not to caress her generous armpits and under her silk panties the strands of black gold which are crispy and strayed without the combing of his adoring fingers; not to chew on the sweetness of her clitoris purified by her sterile essence. It is indeed a long time for him waiting with his impatient manhood; she drove home thinking of her most adored gem of the world, springing her cotton panties with the juices for her womb blessed by her soul through her delectable womanhood, three days, which is even longer for her than his, for she loves him as much as he loves her. Only God knows what a world they have made of their own of their incestuous love, content, self-sufficient, and foolproof from evils and distractions of the messy world.
He has awaited her, bathed and cleaned to her liking, shampooed and soaped with her favorite fragrance, in her favorite cotton trousers and elegant t-shirt, with a computer printing in a white sheet of paper adorned with a bud of red rose, his sign for her nipples and clitoris, and a blossomed yellow rose, the sign of her fragrant pussy: Sister Diksha, your brother Rohan is dying without your love.
She enters their drawing room with the air of a queen, but soon cries with love in exchange for his adoration of her generous heart, her tall, ripe organization.
"Honey, Honey, kiss your sister, my love."
She encircles his stout back with her two long, agile arms, crushing the whizz-kid muscles of his young chest with her generous, sisterly breasts, feeling their tautness for the sensation of her nipples elongated with long seventy-two hours old anticipation. The upright tip of his obdurate penis pokes straight into the hollow of her belly-button, his fifth point of love of her crushing beauty, and stirs desire to the root of her entire richly flat tummy. She scrawls her soft lips, washed and made soft to his liking at the Conference center, along his manly ones, his nose breathing in her perspired scent, her nose the lavender of his soap. She feels hollow in the core of her womanhood, drenched with love juices from her soul and impatiently prepared for his mighty cock's unpitying assault for an eternity.
He sucks on her tongue, inciting her taste buds to the same attention that her raspberry nipples and her peanut clitoris already were, extracting her saliva from every pore and swallowing the torrent as if his very life, his youth, and his nourishment depend on her oral secretion.
Her role as his sister makes her ecstasy more intense; she relaxes her being, concentrates all her attention to his sturdy, invading mouth, so that she can enjoy his worship of her slender, succulent tongue.
"This is what I love, what I want, what I need. Nothing else; nothing, nothing," she muffles into his voracious mouth. "God, death can come this moment or next century, no matter at all."
Slowly, caressingly, he draws up her inned shirt from the soft creases of her wide hipbones under her business slacks, crawls his fingers upon her lower belly, clasps her soft skin around her navel. She feels tingles as if her belly is a mess of broken glass. His hold on her flesh is eager for his enjoyment but careful enough to preserve her pristine condition for his entire life. Her pebbled nipples open like rose buds, her engrossed clitoris twists in painful knots with every puff of his labored breath. 'Oh God, any time I will come, and that will happen before his adoring fingers reach the bases of my poor, smothered breasts.'
It is enough torment for her death. His love drowns her in her own being, her heart swells larger than that of any queen or princess in any condition of love; she does not want his boyish hands reach to her matronly breasts without the penetration of his virile manhood.
"Fuck me brother, fuck your sister before she becomes your wife," she whispers into her left ear whose hollow she is sucking with her invigorated tongue, freshly invaded by his juvenile mouth with endless love.
He could suck her salted neck for another hour, yet her invitation somewhat relieved his pent-up libido, which is distended to the extent where if it does not take recourse to the stage of ultimate salvation, it will harm his hormone system with hyperactive inflammation; that stage he enters with as much ritual as his love. But he defies, for the time being, the impatience of his hyperactive blood, for his sister likes his adoration, and he favors adoring her like the bride she promised to become for her one day to death with the contamination of libido. His confident hands take off her business jacket with as much care as Earl of Leicester would take off Queen Elizabeth's mantilla. He becomes faster when her agile torso affects him from inside her white shirt. He opens each button breathing in her scent accumulated in the hollow of her ribcage and puts the white apparel on the back of the nearby chair. She takes mercy by taking off her slacks in stealth; he sits at her knees to draw them out of her polished ankles.
He stands face to face his life's woman, who is in her white panties and conservative bra, with her ripe glory of 37 persevering years; a PhD in journalism; a fame of being one of the most celebrated columnists of their part of the world; her long, smooth legs; her controlled, wide hips; her inviting navel; her near virgin enormous breasts, her statue hands; her long, artistic neck; her black, shoulder length hair.
She bathed three days back, still to him, she is as fresh as a dewed rose. She offers him her left hand with the air of the costliest whore of the world. He slides the flat of his sturdy tongue from the tip of its middle finger, slowly, devouringly, upward, gathering her perspiration, fast drying in the cool of air conditioner, until he gathers a large pool in the deep depression of her smooth, wispy armpit, and drinks with one suck, distending his virile chest, as if it was a modicum of holy elixir from a Buddhist temple.
His tall, wide sister perspires sterile natural water rich with iodine. He likes to suck her dry as he likes everything with this loving goddess of rarity. He is the luckiest chap in this world and that. He wants nothing else, from God or man, King or President. He is the most content young man on the whole face of this discontent earth.
She loves his boyish youth, eager to do anything, and then fuck her with an intensity most suited to her need, discovered in twenty years of her 35, and with an adoration that gives her the feel of a queen even in her sleep; she comes from the deepest pit of her peaceful soul lying beneath her agitated being. With the first kiss on her left nipple one year ago, he healed her bruised pride of twenty years old injury, for exactly twenty years ago a way-ward prince seduced her, fucked her splitting her cherry, impregnating her with a boy, who would one day make the lover in whose arms she will die by his insatiable fuck. She was only fifteen and it was only one fuck. She remained a virgin for the twenty years until her son, Rohan, fucked her for the first time, when he was nineteen and she was thirty-four.
He is not her brother. He is her son, but a son more like a brother than a son, because he grew too fast and she hardly grew in those twenty years of self-abandonment, pursuing a career, and raising a bastard son, behind the eyes of a prying ugly world. But this is not really the reason that he is fucking her as a sister, not a mother, because he still does not know that she is his mother. Her loving father managed to conceal her pregnancy, during which he sold all his land, his ancestral house, everything, had enough money, for they were rich; upon the birth of her son, her father moved the family from their province to the capital, introduced the child as his not his daughter's, to their new neighbors in the city. Her loving, liberal father died two years ago, of a heart attack, leaving her independent to do whatever she wanted with her surrogate brother.
"Your sister's breasts are hungry to eat you, brother," she says throwing her bra away. This is her style. She does not like him coarse. All the coarseness, perversity is her prerogative. He is her lover, but he is also her love toy.
"Come, come to mommy, fuck her tight cunt while you suck her big tits." It is her fake role-play, which makes her enjoy his youth more devouringly than if he was to fuck her naturally as his mother.
He sits on his knees to take off her panties, whose wide cross is sopping wet with her juices crying to quell his incestuous thirst. Poking his nose across her slit, he deeply breaths in her deeper scent, his hands caressing her perfect, wide asses across her milk white underwear now darkened by dampness, his palms get stuck in the apparel humid with her perspiration. Tossing his head, staring at her blazing eyes, he slips the smutty underwear along the swells of her taut asses, along the back of her healthy thighs, down her knees. He takes the discarded clothing in his hands as if it is a flower, holds its back to form a ball with the crotch, a drop of her juice forms on its tip. Still staring at her blazing eyes, he puts the damp ball into his mouth, sucks on it as he will do one of her nipples when he fuck her in a suitable position only she knows when.
She watches his eating her essence from the crotch of her panties and her inner creases ooze her secretion like the cloud over a mountain forest.
It slides along her inner thighs like two waves of bottled honey. He takes no time in collecting her love potion with the flat of his tongue from her inner thighs. She sighs with regret as it just whips her outer lips. She cannot wait any more. But alas! He is still as clothed as if he is waiting to receive an academic friend.
It is her fault. She never allows him to undress before the last stitch of cloth leaves her body. She likes her nakedness being worshipped by his clothed being. 'It is love,' she always says to herself. 'The kinkier, the better.'
But now, she is hungry for his sex, for three days. It is a pity that she still maintains a semblance of her dominance over his adoring person. Inside, she is melting quicker than the Apennine ice under the June sun.
Before she could tug him by the arms, he pokes his nose into the thick bed of her pubic hair; each strand stands to shower him with her fragrance hidden in their roots. Nothing she likes more than to caress his nose, his lips, his arm pits, the tip of his penis, the opening of his rectum with her dark pubic bush, which he fondly calls 'my mommy's sanctuary for her orphan boy'. The pun thrills her more than the fact would have done.
The flat of his tongue involuntarily laps at her slit, devours another torrent of her juice. But he knows it is not her intention to come this easy way when she needs raw love. He will bring her last climax with her tongue when his manhood is tired after a blitzkrieg fuck, when her battered clitoris needs the healing of his nourishing spit.
She undresses him like a wounded tigress, without shame, without hesitation, without mercy. He attempts to suck her tongue for distraction. But it is not his time. It is hers. She is the queen. He is her young prince, the slave prince, the bastard prince, she raised to the maturity of adulthood, to play with as she pleases, to be fucked to the content of her motherly cunt.
She clasps his virile cockhead. Goosebumps spread over her sisterly -- yes continued deception makes her frequently forget herself -- body as if she has got hold on a snakehead. But she would rather be bitten by that snake, on the very tip of her omnivorous clitoris.
"Now, now, honey. Fuck me. Your sister is dying for your love."
Standing, curses God, they are not evenly tall; he five feet nine, she five feet seven; on tiptoe, she smothers his crazy man-rod along her slit, smacking again and again against her knotted clitoris. She wriggles left and right to crush her breasts against his broad chest, but her attention concentrates on extinguishing the fire spread from her clitoris, across the two sets of fine petals of her hungry vagina, through her motherly heart, her sisterly brain, to the very root of her humane soul. With her artistic movement with the help of her long fingers, she dabs his cockhead along her slit, feeling the scraping of her nether lips on the tips' of her nipples.
Leaving his charitable cock to the mercy of her sisterly opening, her hands clasp his assess with the reassurance he no longer needs to feel free to fuck her, and press them obdurately, looking at his lustful eyes, asking him to appreciate the caresses her softest muscles bequeathing the blood-swollen vessels of his gifted manhood.
He has the inner calmness to enjoy this invaluable moments without coming, that inner calmness which he must have inherited from her father or his grandfather and which God has deprived her from possessing, a deprivation whose gift is her very boy who is now fucking her to her world's content like a sister he can have by only impregnating her.
But she does not have that intention. If he wants to fuck a sister, she is his sister. She does not want him to fuck anybody else, not even his another natural sibling. He is hers, not of anybody else's. She is not ready to exchange him for anything else, not even for all the paradises God has created for good couples like them; she does not need any more sublime prize from the Merciful God.
"One second, son, only one second. Stand still and let mommy to fuck your cock, she needs to come on your cock."
He stands still. Nailed in the air with his spirited cock, she brings his lips close to hers for a kiss. This time it is she who is going to eat out his proud tongue, flavored with her favorite mint.
He concentrates on the pleasure she is showering with her sisterly cunt, without moving her hips, without moving her torso, even not a movement of her breasts, which are crushed to silence against his powerful chest, her pebbled nipples buried in her aureoles, providing her double gratification; her clitoris squashed by the root of his ramrod, her cunt muscles play like one hundred wires of some nameless instrument. Suddenly she collapses with a torrential climax, but manages to stand somehow on the strength of his sturdy tongue she is sucking like a madwoman hungry for a month.
She opens her eyes, awards him a smile worth a lover who is only she, satiated with love.
"Son, now take me to bed and fuck me like the bride you are going to have me one of these days."
She scissors her knees round his hips, suspends herself against his chest from his neck with the cross of her hands.
He walks upstairs, she nailed with his cock.
On her majestic bed, Diksha is sitting, her back across a pillow against the headboard, one tapered leg reaching the middle of the king-size bed, the heel of her right leg touching the rear slope of her left hip, her right knee bending, spreading her hungry loins for her son's lustful eyes.
She is emanating an aphrodisiac scent of sex, sweat, perfume, and voracity. Her arousal, still subdued with two orgasms, whispers in her womb the sweet names of her son, calling him brother again and again. A perverse excitement hits on those of her nerves whose tips end in the walls of her vagina. Her healthy clitoris hisses the heat of an autumn dog into her labia and the outer folds of the labyrinthine slit of her maternal cunt. Anticipation is building up inside her heart and brain, which directs a flow of her essence along the warm channel of her motherhood.
He likes to fuck me as his sister, she thinks. What if he knows the truth, knows that I am not his sister, I am his mother.
"Will he still fuck me with such passion?' she asks herself.
Rohan enters the room, naked, steered by the obstinacy of his erect manhood, two drinks in his two hands. His mother's sprawled body evokes a wild flower whose forest breeze revives a dead man's nerves. His mother smiles at him, partly to conceal the blush that pricks her earlobes. He stares at her elongating nipples; a small wave of lemon juice jumps out of one of the glasses in his hands. He hands the glass to her and sits beside her extended leg.
Diksha is thrilled by Rohan's erect manhood. "My brother is too, too horny today," Diksha whispers into his right ear, swallowing the last gulp of the lemon juice, Rohan has sweetened with honey.
She has forbidden sugar in her household. She has many plans to keep them healthy and sexy. One upward thrust on her sensitive, maternal clitoris with Rohan's sturdy tongue makes her want to live the entire century and frolicking with her post-mature bastard son.
She extends her delicate left hand like a class one whore, slips it over her son's masculine shoulder, feels the goose-bumps of desire explode out of him as the wisps of her armpit, pregnant with her feminine scent, scrape his shoulder. She draws her son closer with the might of her maternal extremity, the tip of her middle finger slides on his invisible left nipple, down and up, down and up.
Diksha's finger on his nipples makes Rohan's balls spasm. He has a rare moment to know how she feels when he touches her more sensitive nipples.
"Sonny's small nipples are as favorite to mommy as mommy's big ones to sonny," she whispers into his right ear, entering into the intriguing maternal role-play.
Mention of her nipples by herself into his ear produces a lake of saliva inside Rohan's masculine mouth. He loves in her, in his sister, everything, but her nipples have an amount of extra appeal, partly because they are long and smooth, and partly because of the way she offers them, putting them into his mouth as if it is a baby's, and whispering, "eat mommy's milk".
'She is my sister, but she is old enough to be my mother.' Rohan's sexuality inflates by her maternal role.
Rohan is thirsty, but not for the lemon drink. He puts the glass on the side table and slumps down for a spell of worship. He touches her left shoulder with the tip of her tongue, glides his oral digit downward, and reaches two beautiful wrinkles the root of her hand forms where it joins her torso.
Diksha knows what is going on. As if out of shame, as if he is going to open a part of her secret feminity, her arm tightens against her body. But with naughty and powerful licking of her son, the arm soon loses its strength to remain stiff. Rohan pushes his pig's tongue right across the sexy wrinkles and flattens the semi-damp wisps in her generous armpit. Rohan's convulsive mouth forces out all the saliva it has produced lately, as if to bath and purify the feminine hair in the semi-sacred place of his desire.
Her son's saliva runs down her torso, reaches the base of her left breast. She loves the kinkiness, but she loves more his son's hunger for the creases and curves of her body.
Rohan's sturdy tongue duels with the weak hair of his mother's armpit, washes them as his mother deserves to be washed to be present as the queen for a banquet, and prepares the drink for his sexual appetite with his dribble and the salt that has gathered for three days under her arms. Extending his chest, Rohan drinks profusely from his mother's fountain he artificially created under her arm with his kinky adoration to his enjoyment.
Diksha feels her left armpit has just come. But she knows this is only the beginning of carnal voracity of his omnivorous youth which will play with her body for the next millennium without a pause. As his satisfied tongue, now more invigorated with the blessing of her secret nourishment, reaches the middle-base of her left breast, Diksha's maternal left nipple shakes like the tongue of a snake. Her anticipation reaches peak where she fears that her son's wicked tongue will burn this very sensitive micro outpost of her feminine profusion.
Time has played cruel games with the vulnerable mother of forbidden sacrifice that she is worth for. After many sinful moments, Rohan reaches the nut of her left nipple and chews on it without mercy, but knowing very well how his sister feels, like a live fish on a frying pan, when he sucks her nipples.
After twenty minutes, Diksha is still being tortured on her both nipples. In the meantime, at least ten times he has tried to take the entirety of each of her mature breasts in his ambitious mouth but these maternal gourds are much bigger than what his wide oral cavity can devour. And no mention of their forbidden sweetness, and aphrodisiac scent they make with his spit.
Nothing Diksha loves more when her son tries to devour one of her breasts. His powerful mouth puts such a sucking force on her blood across the healthy leather of her taut breasts that it seems the sheer strength draws her cunt's fluid upward, but as soon as his mouth releases the sensitive gourd, her ripe cunt weeps like an abandoned princess. But Rohan is relentless in his eating his mother's breasts.
Her son's voracity sends electric signals from her breasts to every tip of her body. Waives of healthy slime rush from her womb to her vagina. Her prodigious clitoris knots and un-knots maddeningly, feeling neglected, crying for a touch, which she doesn't dare to lend because she hates the pause a sudden orgasm will intervene with, and which he cannot because he is so much busy with his mother's supple, enticing breasts.
Diksha wants to ward off the climax by thinking intimate things. Like many intimate moments of carnal love, she swallows her pain to tell Rohan that he is really her son, that he is biting his mother's nipples, gobbling his mother's breasts, not his sister's as he knows. But she doesn't reveal the truth, not because that it will upset him, which she is sure will not be the case, because she has carefully prepared Rohan for facing up to the reality one day and her allowing him fucking her is the culmination of that preparation. But she does not like the pause the reality will intervene with, as she does not like the pause at this moment a devastating orgasm can intervene with.
But climax is not all about it. Climax she likes most, but no less she likes this intimate raping of her maternity by her virile son.
Her body is, however, not in her control, it is under his. She can only try. Her need to cum is very intense. But her need to be ravaged is more urgent. She tries to disorient her lusty maternal sexuality with a more serene, romantic role. She holds her son's worshipping head with all the might she can master, draws it up to her face, looks into his befuddled countenance with maternal fire. But his loving eyes extinguishes the fire of lust in her eyes, she draws his mouth closer, and kisses him intimately like a robust elder sister. The game produced the desired result. Her soul gets the peace of the romantic elder sister who is head over heels in love with his naïve younger brother. As a playful stupidity, she takes his right hand in her loving ones, takes them to his destiny, puts it assertively on her sprawled groin, his middle finger dabbed into the seam of her feminine core. Her intention is to show him how much secretion he has produced by ravishing the beauty of her breasts.
"See Rohan, what've you done' to your sister," she said looking into his eyes. And slipping the base of his palm from her rosy asshole, his four outer fingers reaching the outer ridges of her pubic forest, his middle finger boiling inside her illustrious cunt, his entire palm drowned in the flood that his love for the forbidden sexuality of her ripe feminine charms has drawn out from the well of her delicate soul.
Her fiery maternal desire to be fucked by her son is subdued now. She is now his elder sister, to be fucked by her romantic brother, like a new bride, like an eternal lover. His finger is letting her sisterly cunt know what the wild snake of his virile cock with all its emotional venom can do to its slushy walls at the height of its forbidden hunger.
"Do you know that your sister's speech made the day in the Conference?" Diksha says. She looks at Rohan and blushes like a young sweetheart. "Do you know, brother?" she demands again with a hoarse, purring voice. "Do you?"
"Yes, Diksha, I know," he says.
"If you really know, then reward me by fucking, my bastard brother."
He loves when she calls him a bastard. It gives him some sort of legality to fuck her, whom he knows as his sister, who is, in fact, more than that, who is his mother.
"Do you want to fuck this early, Sister?" Rohan says. "I haven't taken care of my sanctuary yet."
Listening to her son speaks of his sanctuary, all the strands of Diksha's lush pubic hair stand like the spines of a hedgehog, and makes a symbolic sanctuary for her vulnerable son between her golden thighs.
According to him, her pubic bush is his dreamland of a sanctuary, whose down lays the golden cave he would like to hide in if a suicide bomber attacks the neighborhood. She thanks God with silent prayers often when she recalls how her son worships her intimate parts by attributing them with an illustrious epithet.
With her willing blessing, Rohan gets around to playing with her pubic forest. He sprinkles some lemon from his half-finished glass on the thicket with as much care as a Bedouin waters an oasis orchard. Diksha's is now sitting on a swamp of lemon and her secretion gathered for over half an hour by the ministration of her son. She feels sweetly filthy and sexy over the wetness.
Rohan dives right on her sister's thick pubic forest. He loves her scent in the root of each silky strand. He fills his lung by deeply breathing.
Diksha's pubic hair does not grow on the most sensitive part of her sexuality, obviously. But the way her son loves it makes a deeper bond between them than his lust for her cunt and breasts do. 'It is more intimate' she says to herself and her toes curl against his hot breath, far off. 'He's my kinky motherfucker, my sex-pet,' she whispers in the air.
Rohan resorts to his tongue, scraping the strong digit against the thick bed of her maternal forest and parts, as if his tongue is made for parting her pubic hair. It reaches near her clit, of its own volley. Diksha knows what awaits her in the hand of this juvenile robber who is also her son. She decides to cum, but not until his tongue makes an entire odyssey across the softest coasts of his mother's oceanic love door. Her clitoris is stiff, as if a snake's lip moving toward to lick it's very sensitive tip.
Rohan began to eat his mother's affluent cunt knowing that he is eating his sister's ripe one. He is fond of the rich texture of her portal to paradise. Even if she refuses him a penetration, he would not mind at all. The profundity of juice leaking out of this love injury is enough for his sexual appetite, although it is not enough for his satisfaction, for she knows how to exert caress on the veins along his solid manhood. But for now, he is drinking all of it, lashing out with his sweep of hungry tongue until the crack of her asses, reaching the other bank of her rosy asshole. He laps at the bed-sheet, at the soft parts of her thighs, so long as those parts are wet, and he eats all of it with small nibbles, chewing gently on the coral lips, wetting them with a part of her secretion before he takes it again in his mouth and swallows.
Diksha is ready to cum now. It sounds in her throat, with a hoarseness that makes him want to make her cum until she dies Cumming on his tireless tongue.
"I am cumming, brother, your sister is cu-m-i-ng,..." Diksha hisses.
"Fuck me now, you motherfucker," she says, after five minutes.
Diksha is lying flat on her back. Her ivory legs are splayed. Her hands are behind her head, playing blindly with her shiny locks. In this pose, she is open to her son as the soft receptive earth is open to the mortal man.
Rohan is covering her with his Adonis mess. He takes one sloppy lap at her right armpit, making the sensitive flesh quiver like a pussy in heat. His cock is deeply rooted into her cunt. Their two groins are sealed together, one's pubic hair sewn with other's.
Rohan shoves his solid meat a few millimeters, to smash the bud of her hardened clit on the base of his ramrod. As he shoves down another few millimeters, all Diksha's strength gathers on her smashed clitoris, the rest of her body crumbles like butter melting in heat.
Rohan knows her body's language as she knows his. To save her from the disastrous climax, he withdraws; his prick emerges from the depth of her pussy, slicing along its way the clasping cunt-walls – as if a boa snake fleeing from a hill of butter that collapsed on it – until the fat lips embrace and collapse on the raised base of the slimy cock's bulbous head. Extending her left hand, she arranges her outer pussy lips along the scissor of her middle and index finger, and with the fragile ropes of her nether lips, she firmly ties the cockhead round the depression created by virtue of a perfect circumcision when he was nine.
"You beautiful fucker." She awards him an appreciative smirk.
Putting his weight on the strength of his arms, pillared on her both sides, Rohan ravishes the beauty of his naked sister. He measures the depth of her mind dug on her face. One needs the courage of a frontline hero to look at her penetrative eyes. Between the soft feminine cheeks, the hardened forehead spreads certain masculine and austere ambience about her. Rohan's eyes draw down from her sculpted Adam's apple. Pillowed on her generous chest, her matronly breasts respond to his lustful eyes like two mountainous waves in violent Mid-Atlantic hurricane.
Rohan can hold it no more. His boa snake slices the hot meat of her soft cunt as powerfully as when he sharply withdrew to forestall her orgasm. The two pairs of their hot eyes make intoxicating contact. Inspired by the lust in his eyes, her wealthy cunt walls release some fresh oil. Rohan's hungry manhood feeds on and tastes the bubbling of the wetness of his sister's disgruntled womanhood. The more it feeds, the more it wants, expressing its need loud and clear by hardening and distending few millimeters every second.
"Enjoy it brother," Diksha says, smothering his ever growing meat-cylinder with her cunt-walls, expertly pressing them on it from all sides, just to the extent when his pleasure from the friction is maximum. She can read the need of his hard cock like a written text.
Diksha's pussy releases fresh juices as her own pleasure supersedes her stud's. She holds his asses. The masculine tautness of his hips feels good on the softness of her palms. Clasping the boyish butts adoringly, she presses him deep inside her, feeling the opening of her womb to invite his crying cock-peak. She angles his groin adroitly, so that the pressure on her tortured clitoris maximum for her pleasure but short of an orgasm.
"How is it brother?" she asks, flashing a slutty green. She feels her womb receiving his hot cockhead and drinking its dripping pre-cum.
Some indiscernible sadness sets its rude prick in the wide horizon of Rohan's superior conscience. 'How unlucky the rest of the boys of this world without a sister like Diksha,' he thinks. He knows of paradise from the holy book. But paradise does not appeal to him any longer. 'My sister is my paradise; she gives me a happier paradise than what God has sanctioned for the righteous.'
He looks at her, as if to see anew his paradise. Her beautiful face reminds him lantern bearing Florence Nightingale; her delicate arms; her fingers of a piano artist; her white armpits shaded by ashen wisps; her heaving breasts capped by fine-toned areoles in the root of the slender nipples. As he looks further down, at the smoke in the dip of her girlish navel, the walls of his mouth and his tongue sprinkle like the Trevi Fountain in Rome. He gathers the clean fluid in the well of his mouth, just in case. His hunger to see her nakedness increases every second his lustful eyes devours her sources of feminine bounties.
He sees the slight plumpness of her lower belly, the invisible line of soft strands, climbing down her golden tummy, ending up in the lush forest of black gold; his own pubic hair seems a hazy reflection of his sister's shiny forest. He looks at the sprawled flesh of her matronly ass with incurable jealousy. The fat leather of her womanly butts is spread on the blessed bedcover. He dabs on the smooth-textured flesh with his fingers and his poor fingers are baptized blissfully with charitable profusion of the holy velvet on the back of God's Armed Chair.
His eyes are glued to the bond between the sources of their pleasure. The incestuous sacrifice of her pink nether lips, whitened because of the raping stretch of a rubber band caused by the beastly girth of his bandit dick, brings two heavy drops of tears in his humane eyes. He cleans his eyes with his left arm and looks ever more closely how his cock seals his sister's liberal cunt. The more he sees the indefatigable puss-lips hugging tightly round his inconsiderate manhood, the more his heart dissolves in love. He stares at the compassionate opening of her womanhood rising bravely from under the safe bastion of the thick forest between her broad, bronzed thighs and struggling hard to accommodate his lust-filled fuck-meat for the sake his pleasure. He stares to his heart's content, bending his neck, hurting it, without worry, without disturbance by his sister, until he sees no more, because new tears blur his vision.
A deeper love sprouts from Diksha's heart and soul when their eyes lock again. They look at each other with blurred visions because both of them are weeping in love. Her son's worship of her beauty and bounty makes her Queen Elizabeth minus her austere virginity. She often regrets that Rohan does not know that she is his mother. But now it is more meaningful that Rohan is fucking her thinking that she is his sister who is old enough to be his mother. A mother is supposed to sacrifice everything to her son. But so much love by a sister is seldom possible. She wonders how he wonders. She knows him. The tears in his eyes are because he believes that a sister does not give her brother so much love.
Both of them would come by now if they were not deeply in love with each other. It is the sharp bite of love in the height of their twisted sexiness that keeps them from coming. Rather they feel a burning satisfaction. The ever-growing lust in the face of installed climaxes washes them with a deeper feel than mighty orgasms.
"You are my God, Diksha," Rohan snaps, as if he has risen from a broken swoon.
Diksha stares at the priestly halo hovering her son's face. This is the zenith of her life. She has achieved what no mother will ever dream to achieve. She is her son's God, a feminine and bountiful God, who does not know of any hell, who creates only heaven.
Rohan cannot hold any more the ocean of saliva gathered in his mouth while he devoured his sister's feminine resources with his perverted eyes. Two puddles of hot saliva jump from the corners of his mouth simultaneously, showering on her taut nipples. The miraculous sloppiness fries the maternal God's already burning nipples with an exotic ecstasy she is not ready to trade for all the eight paradises in the possession of masculine God in the sky.
"Shut your mouth, you passionate bastard. Mommy is thirsty," Diksha coos. She knows what she wants. Grabbing Rohan's face, snapping it onto her own, she seals his mouth with her lips. Torrents of thin fluid run from Rohan's mouth along her jaw-walls, along her feminine tongue. Her beautiful Adam's apple rises and falls as she quenches her thirst from his masculine well with a commotion she considers most vulgar for a woman to make.
She releases his face when the liquid flow of his love dies out and looks at his insecure face, sees how much he is in need of her love and sex. The pool of tears in his eyes swells to the brim. With her washed tongue, she laps at his right eye most femininely and eats the salty water to sterile her inner cavities. She treats his left eye with the same motherly love, growing deeper every moment deep in her heart.
"Sonny wants to fuck mommy," Diksha says, inspired by the violence of his rigid cock-meat inside her forgotten womanhood. Diksha knows why his prick has become so devilish. The reason is obvious. She uttered the word 'mommy', twice. This word is source of the electricity of his sex.
"Sonny boy, my little bastard, now start fucking mommy." She further incites his youthful sexuality. But with this twisted role-play, she also incites her body. The mess of her cunt-flesh soon becomes agile and starts seeping comforting wetness.
She is possessed now, possessed by the holy God of maternal sexuality, which shakes her entire body, but nowhere it is stirring more than inside the columns of her taut nipples, still wet with her son's saliva.
"My little bastard," Diksha says into his left ear, whipping hot air of sex, "I can't fuck you in the groin, because I don't have a prick and you don't have a cunt. Only you can fuck me between my thighs, because I have my cunt and you have your cock." She pauses a little and then says naughtily, "But mommy can fuck you somewhere else."
As the dirty heat of this sexy statement sinks in Rohan's receptive mind, Diksha with her slender tongue dries the pools of sweat from the invisible nipples on Rohan's chest, one by one.
Rohan is still confused. Diksha, his sexy sister, the goddess-scientist of sexual art, invents some kinkiness every time they fuck.
'Only God knows what she is up to today.' Rohan sighs.
"What if mommy fucks these tiny nipples with her large nipples," Diksha says with coquettishness of an international whore, and snaps one long lap with her tongue, beginning on his one nipple and ending on the other. Rohan's cock makes it known with the stirring of his cock inside her cunt how much he will love to be fucked in his boyish nipples by his sister's long, beautiful nipples.
'I wish I had fatter nipples,' Diksha says to herself. Her nipples are tall, like grape fruits with the texture of raspberry. 'But I know the tricks,' the contended goddess of maternal sexuality soothes her aroused soul.
Rohan takes his weight on his arms. Diksha arranges her breasts vertically with the sheer will of the feel of her sexiness. Her erect nipples beckon at her son's aroused nipples. She puts her open palms on Rohan's back, feels richly the juvenile muscle coated in sweating leather. She swivels her soft palms on her son's wet back, feeling kinky and sexy, the walls of her cunt-tunnel become lither, agiler; sex is taking the better of everything of her mind and body. She is now a wicked mother, a wicked woman, a wicked goddess, more wicked than the Devil. She knows, only this way she can create heaven for her and her son.
As the hunger of her soft palms are satisfied with the slippery texture of her son's sweated back, Diksha adroitly pulls him slowly on her chest until the tips of his nipples lodge on the wider tip of her maternal nipples.
Both mother and son shake with the emotional feel of their nipples against each other's. If Diksha's nipples are two maroon grapes, Rohan's tiny ones are two sharp nettles. It is difficult to understand who will fuck whom.
"I'm sorry, baby," Diksha says, looking into his eyes. "I can't fuck your nipples with my nipples. Your nipples will prick the grapes of mommy's nipples and spill all the juices inside. But since mommy has promised, let me try."
Diksha gathers her will and strength in the flesh of her breasts and vibrates her nipples like the two hands of a tuning fork, getting pricked with the prickly peak of her son's aroused nipples. Her nipples vibrate, lurch, dance at every angle, taking the prickly pricks on her son's chest in every invisible crease of her raspberries. The sharper she feels, the more emotionally her agile cunt walls weep on her son's cock.
Rohan feels his cock getting lost in the liquid heat of his sister's generous cunt. But it is his nipples that are in mindboggling bliss, touching every secret crease of her nipples. Diksha stops only when she knows one more lurch by her twin columns of depravity onto the boy's sensitive nips will make his cock explode into her seething cunt.
"Good mommies are not supposed to fuck their sons, baby," Diksha says coquettishly. "But good sons fuck their mommies. Will you be a good son, brother, and fuck mommy now, and make her cum?"
Diksha's begging is hot, as hot her boiling cunt around his cock. Rohan begins stabbing into the swamp of her womanhood. Diksha squeezes his invading cock with her cunt meat, knowing well that it is essential for his pleasure, so that now her cunt is like Atlantic Ocean after the release of so much fluid because of the uncanny wrestling of their bonded nipples.
The soft mess of his sister's pussy-flesh touches every hidden cranny of Rohan's invading manhood. She likes it when he increases the frequency and force of his penetration, but she wants more. She wants him to fuck her like a horse, like a dog, like pansy, like a mighty vampire in arousal. "Fuck me brother, if you fuck me well, I will tell you a dangerous secret, the secret of our lives. Listen bastard, it may fuck and muck your life. So you might not have another opportunity to fuck me. But If you understand, listen my little bastard, if you understand, you will find your paradise in the valley between my breasts and in the sanctuary between my legs. You must understand, won't you bastard? But you deserve the secret if only you fuck me well. You horny little boy. Fuck mommy, fuck me son."
This uncanny role-play takes Rohan to his sexual peak. He has no time to listen to anything serious. He begins to fuck her mercilessly, rooting his prick inside her womb with every thrust, and smashing her clitoris, blistering it by virtue of increased frequency of his assault.
The day's supreme orgasm is building in her sole, gathering its limbs from the farthest tips of her body, from her fingertips, her toes, her souls, from her scalp, from the roots of the hairs on her head, her armpits, and her groin. Diksha's belly twists in sharp spasm as the overwhelming orgasm slides down her belly button, toward the center of her pleasure, to the root of her cunt, to the tip of her g-spot, and to the tip of her battered clitoris. Her throat groans like a bull being slaughtered with an Islamic sword.
Rohan knows it coming. It is coming from inside her. It is also coming from his inside. The scattered body of a fluid orgasm has gathered itself and it is now sliding to the core of his sister's feminine bounty. The scattered body of a paste-like orgasm is jumping from his balls, maddeningly trying to reach the root of his piss-tunnel.
He is stabbing now only with one desire, to help his orgasm find its exit. She is squeezing his invading cock with her holy cunt with only one desire, to explode when he explodes. A big bang, her nipples cry. A big bang, his nipples cry without his knowing. A big bang, his heart cries. A big bang, her heart cries. Cunt and cock keeps crashing each other with one single desire: A big bang by two compatible orgasms. He hits into the cave of her pussy-meat with his ramrod so hard that his thighs hurt her thighs. She bounces with as sharply, trying to tear the battered mess of cunt meat with his knifing cock.
Diksha and Rohan come together. Two mighty orgasms hit one another into a big bang. Peace of heaven descends on them in the afterglow of incestuous love. They sleep in each other's arms like two innocent children.
After a good night's fuck, Rohan always wakes first. The first rays of sunlight enters through between the tapestries, drives out the darkness from their quaint bedroom. He always sleeps deeply after their lovemaking. It's always a deep short dip into the freshening unconsciousness.
But last night was long. Driven by the necessity to release the load of solaced semen that brewed in his balls during their prolonged foreplay, he could not follow what Diksha had said in the height of their fiery passion. It seemed something unpleasant, something premonitory. A minor worry kept buzzing in the back of his head last night. His sleep was interrupted by a long repetitive dream.
His grandfather, his loving late grandfather, who died five years ago, was taking Diksha away from him. He came in a groom's dress in a white horse. Diksha was in a white bridal dress when she rode the horse and sat in the front of the virile old man. Rohan was seeing off Diksha, giving her hand in marriage to her father, who was taking her to heaven.
Rohan dreamed the dream a million times. Every time the old man drove the horse, Rohan's heart cried in love for Diksha. Thus he cried for her a million times in one night. He loved her never more than he loved her in last night's dream, which was vicious, repetitive, but inspired a sad romance that made him want her even the more. He wakes up and sits upright with a jerk.
He finds her beside her, sleeping as the way she was born, but not a child, a mature woman in her feminine glory. She is supine. Her legs form a soft quadrangle. Her heels are touching. The source of her womanhood is in lurid display. There is no trace of anxiety in her haloed face.
'Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. Because Diksha can alleviate everything evil,' Rohan says to himself, wiping his wet eyes. His eyes fill with new tears, the tears of love and desire and taboo happiness.
He looks along her bodily organization. Her breasts are lodged on her wide chest. The juicy gourds banish premonition and brings hunger for heavenly lust. They are his twin Mount Everest. Climbing up her breasts is more desirous, more thrilling than climbing up the world's highest peak. The long nipples, not so long in their peaceful hibernation, are lousy in leisure. They have a tender glow about themselves. These nipples are his life's steering, his center of destination, and his shining beacons dead at night, like the Lighthouse of Alexandria when there were no other lighthouses in the Mediterranean. He can eat her raw. He can gather the salt from her sweat silted in the pit of her arms, in between her fingers and toes, in the roots of her hair, in the depth of her navel, in the crack of her asses. He can happily have breakfast lapping languidly on her minx's skin. But now, in this early morning, what he needs is her scent. Every time he wakes up he needs her scent. But today he needs it more than ever. Only her scent can sooth his stirred nerves, stirred for the first time in his life.
His glare is ablaze on her matted moor in the ravine between her bronze thighs. Before he takes his day's scent, he has a look at her thighs for the first time of the day.
Her thighs are the thighs of Athena. 3000 years ago, the chief architect of the future city Athens had asked the virgin goddess Athena, "What should look like the columns of your Temple, Holy Goddess?" Goddess Athena had opened her sash and shown the architect her sexy thighs. The virgin goddess indicated to the architect from her knee-cup up to the slope of her ass and asked him to make her Temple's columns in the shape of her thighs. Thus was erected the famous Temple of Athena. Subsequently, the columns of all Greek temples resembled Athena's powerful thighs. 3000 years later, Diksha's curved thighs resemble all the columns of all Greek temples.
Diksha is Rohan's Athena. Diksha' thighs are the bulwark against any disaster that may befall him. He looks at their sleeping power, more potential than what blew up Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He gather's his life's and afterlife's strength from the strength of the celestial thigh's of his incestuous beloved. Now it is time to take his day's scent.
Between her thighs, Rohan prostrates at her dry garden, as if it is a basket of flower bouquets for worshipping an angry goddess. His nose touches the crispy sheet their secretions formed during their prolonged fuck-play. He swivels his nose in search of a softer place until the tip of his nose touches her skin breaking the sheet of cum where it is the thinnest.
He finds it. He finds her smell, the smell of a forest animal. He breathes deeply, filling his lung. He slides his nose downward; the tip of his nose touches the tip of her dry clitoris. Diving below, he finds the dry seam. Swiveling across the net of hair, he manages to poke his nose across the silky lips.
This was his nostrils' ultimate destination. Shoving a few millimeters deep, he breathes with all the strength his healthy lungs can master. He inhales the humid air which was purified in his sister's womb and which is now climbing up the walls of her sleeping cunt-flesh, bringing along its way the many flavors his Athena produces with her kinky lust. The scent is rain-sodden country mud. He breathes deeper. The holy scent reaches the farthest corners of his body, his fingertips, his cranium, and his waking scrotum. This is heaven. This is his supreme asylum.
'God, Father of heaven and earth, make me this lucky every morning with this scent washing my lungs, my blood, my innards, and I will be a slave in the stable of your next prophet,' Rohan prays blissfully.
His reverie is broken by the stir of a fish in the pit of a tropical swamp. "You holy bastard," Diksha exclaims, banishing the last vestiges of sleep from her well-rested body. "What punishment should I give you for debasing me?"
He likes the sexy voice of his sister. But he doesn't raise his head. He ravishes as much her flavor as he can. For this refreshing worship, time is short, he knows.
Sitting upright, Diksha holds his head with both her hands. Rohan has hair of a lion. She draws her head up, humps his face on her pubic hair.
"See it, feel it, bastard, rapist, feel how you destroyed my sacred garden with your filthy cum," Diksha says, sexily, dragging Rohan's face up and down, from one side to another, on her decorated garden ravaged by the desire of incest. She crashes his face on her moorland. The crispy cum-sheet bruises his cheeks; a small speck thinly cuts his lower lip.
"Brother," she calls with all her heart. Calling him brother is so crucial at this moment. It is not long she will tell him the truth and she will never have an opportunity to call him brother.
"Brother, my young brother," she calls again. Brother. This word is now the dynamite of arousal in her twisted soul. "Brother, my sexy Adonis brother." Waves of incestuous pleasure drift her body in the river of sex. Her cunt walls are getting agile. Her dead clitoris has already got life. "My incestuous fucking brother," she murmurs.
The hood of her clitoris is jerking languidly, like the head of a tiny monkey trying to climb up an oily pole.
"Ahha, my innocent brother, my fucking slave."
The more she utters 'brother' the more her pussy-walls sprinkle honey into the hollow of her cunt-meat. She has never thought calling Rohan brother for the last time will arouse her this much. The incestuous word draws so much fluid into her pussy that her maternal cave soon becomes the mass of water in the Red Sea. "Moses, my holy brother," she calls out. "You have ravaged your sister's garden. Now is the time to plant new flowers. Go down Moses."
Clasping his lion's hair in her fists, she pushes her head downwardly until his crispy lips meet her sodden nether lips.
"Bring water from the holy sea and plant new trees in your sister's orchard," she commands.
The incestuous lovers are the artists of the creative kink-land. Rohan sinks his last night's tongue into the boiling pit of Diksha's pussy until her cringed pussy-lips lodge on the base of his uvula. He rotates his oral digit in the heat of her pussy juice as much for hygiene as for the sake of pleasure. He drinks the stirred nectar. She releases fresh mass.
"You greedy bastard," Diksha exclaims, reveling in the pleasure of fuck by his beastly tongue. But fuck is not what is in her mind at these early hours of indolence. Ahead of them, she has a long life and he has a longer life for countless penetrative fucks. This time she wants some intimacy, some intimate love-play.
"You greedy bastard, you have an assignment to re-plant your sister's garden."
This is all what Rohan needs for a reminder. The Adonis of incest is no less creative than the goddess of incest. He gets down to business. He thinks some moments. What can be done? What can be done? Soon he forms a boat with his tongue. He knows his job. He gathers her copious pussy juice in the tongue-boat's belly. He pushes it up to her moorland and flips the liquid mass on her matted jungle.
This is so intimate. Diksha's eyes fill in tears of love.
Rohan shoves his tongue into her pussy like a cylinder. When his tongue is deep inside her, he flattens it and she feels her pussy walls are separated like a sliding door by his flattening tongue.
'My sweet fucker's tongue is as strong as his precious cock,' Diksha thinks.
Rohan drenches her wild garden with her pussy juice. Some of the precious nectar skates down her thighs. He presses his right cheek on the wet heath. He rubs his both cheeks on the wetland until the cum-sheet becomes a paste of sweet wax.
Diksha is in heaven, not out of the feel of sex but from the sheer devotion of her son's oral nursing of her pubic mane. Her hands are on his head. She steers her stud's oral adoration to her liking.
Rohan puts a large chunk of the wet hair in his mouth.
He receives the soap of her pussy juice mixed with the paste of last-night cum on his voracious tongue. It tastes of exotic yoghurt and he loves it. He eats every last vestige, chewing tenderly on every individual hair, receiving into his mouth layers of autumn dust, age-old pussy secretion, ancient sweat, and prehistoric salt. When he finishes re-planting her sacred garden, her pubic hair is the cleanest, shiniest, and most tender Japanese grass in the garden of Emperor Akihito.
'Such love, such adoration.' Diksha has created heaven in her own house with her son. She will not hanker after God's heaven in the sky. She draws his head up, at the level of her face. An erotic smile spreads on her beautiful face as she sees the broken cum-sheet like wax powder on his eyebrows and jaws. She pulls his face close to her, never losing the eye-contact. Her sweet smile grows softer, more feminine, and sweeter, as his face comes closer. She puts his right cheek on his left cheek, and presses a little. She rolls his face on hers. Their noses meet, their eyebrows mesh together, one's cheek slides across the other's.
Rohan loves the intimacy of it as much as his sister. His skin touches her skin along her torso. The incestuous hetero couple exchanges their bodies' warmth. 'If only she were some sweaty.' He likes her body's touch better when she is wet. It is even betters if she is wet with her sweat.
Diksha licks his bruised face. She licks sloppily. She kisses his lips taking them between her soft lips. She kisses them with soft nibbles and showers them with her tenderness. She is his mother. But still he does not know it. He knows that she is his sister.
"Brother," she calls out. The word ignites the same magic as it has done earlier. "Let your sister nurse your tongue. I must pay off, even if I am your sexy sister."
Rohan pushes his sturdy oral digit inside her mouth. Her tender tongue embraces his tongue and soaks it with the secretion of her taste buds. She tastes his tongue. She tastes her feminine products -- pussy juice, sweat, salt, brewed dampness of her panties of previous days and weeks-- on his tongue. The dueling tongues exchange their sacred love.
"My holy brother," Diksha says, smiling at Rohan. Rohan's lecherous eyes stare at her nipples. Her nipples reflect the sexiness of her voice.
Rohan opens the glass window at Diksha's head. He also opens the window opposite it. The house is in a semi-detached plot. Their bedroom is surrounded with rose bushes. The morning sun is bright on Diksha's unkempt hair. Her thick skin glows. A steady but powerful autumn breeze washes over her body. The wind exerts pressure on the back of her semi-erect nipples.
Rohan's eyes are on her pubic hair. It is the most beautiful sight in this bright morning. The wind blows the silky strands of black gold like a heather of wild grass. 'It is my land of pilgrimage,' Rohan says to himself.
Their eyes meet. They are in love. Rohan has forgotten his premonition.
"So what are you now," Rohan asks, offering Diksha the lemon Drink. "My mother or sister?"
Diksha has uttered one hundred times what she would answer to this question. But Rohan has not digested the matter as she had thought. Now, looking at his puzzled face, she does not know what to tell him. These three days they lived like two unrelated individuals. There is a long sexless pause of three days in their life as lovers. She told her their past with as much care as was required to save him from suffering from being known that he is a bastard, the most unbearable stigma in their society for which a son kills his mother.
The third day she went to work. Now she is home from work. The Editor of the one of the country's most-widely circulated newspaper is in her best attire. The navy-blue slack and blazer, the Armani cotton t-shirt, and a black pair of Milanese shoes make Diksha a prime minister or international lawyer. But a luscious one. Her dark hair, pointed breasts, and natural hips, delicately long arms, and robust thighs are not her best feature. It is her face and her deep wide eyes that are charming alike to a highway pimp, street beggar, high school teenager, or the country's president.
Her face is now a little bit work-worn, but it gives her a languidly sexy look. In other time Rohan would by now begin to kiss her to heal her weariness.
Who knows? May be he is feeling hornier now, she thinks. There is something perverted about it, something unusual -- thanks to the stoic nature of her son – that has filled her mind and body with new spirit. The more Rohan knew about himself, his identity as a miraculous son, the more mature and manlier he became.
She is constantly gazing at him. Her little boy is now a full-grown man. Looking at his strong jaw-lines she knows for the first time in her life that if ever she has thought to marry a man and surrender herself to his arms, she has thought of somebody in Rohan's present self, a young man of immense depth who faces up to a disaster with primal stoicism. A romantic love, mixed with a hunger of three-day's sexual abstention, foams in her soul and sends waves of desire to her extremities. She feels it in her bosom. The maternal breasts, which she has forgotten while she was in her office, now wake up pleasantly, lurching inside her conservative bra. She feels the scraping of her elongated nipples against the cotton fabric. The thinking that the new Rohan is closer to her body and mind than the old Rohan sends warm bubbling signals to her motherhood. The thick rose petals of her pink pussy-flower unfurls in the air of vapid smoke supplied by a new sexual anticipation centered on her son. The rest of her lush body radiates a sexual heat. She feels perspiration gathers in the creases of her curves, in her armpits, in the denseness of her pubic hair. The feeling is most fidgety in her engorged clitoris. Ahaha, when my bastard will love my love bud with his hot tongue? What if he does not touch me again? Diksha shudders.
Rohan is not much shocked. As she popped out the truth finally, he recalled Diksha's enigmatic role-play as his mother. He's tried to understand his heart. A slight humiliation oppressed him. But he was not responsible for it. He cannot blame anybody because Diksha has raised him well. In fact, his upbringing was most ideal among his friends. He never felt the need of a mother because Diksha was there for his every need. What he needed was time, he knew, to let his new position in the house to sink in.
And it has sunk well. Seeing Diksha back from office in a gloomy mood fills his heart with a manly love. In three days, this is the first time she seems to be his mother and he feels it in his soul. There is also a deeper feel in his heart. He finds Diksha is in a dual role. He doesn't want to lose the loving big sister that she has been to him so many years. There was nothing sweeter in seven seas and fifty-one mountains than the perspiration under his loving sister's generous armpits. There was not a safer shade that his elder sister's two up-thrust breasts spread over his head. There was not an aroma more soothing to his juvenile edginess than what smoked between his sexy sister's shapely thighs in her arousal. How generous of it for a big sister to nurture the sexiest garden between her thighs because her nasty brother loved to play in it. No. He is not ready to give up his sister whom he came to know to be the most desired love queen in the megacity, who raised him in disguise of a pampering elder sister.
But finding a mother is something new to him. Now that he can reconcile that she is his mother, her breasts seems to have been sweeter. He is in real need to taste them anew. The first thing he feels while feeling her as his mother is a hunger for her agile breasts. Water is seeping out from his taste buds and dipping his tongue in a pool of wanton secretion. He can't wait to bath her nipples with it.
Diksha drinks the entire glass of cool drink and puts the glass on the side-table. Her body refreshes like a new bride. Sitting on the couch, and looking into his eyes, she is thinking of the answer to his question. She is horny too, lovingly horny. This is the moment to tell him what she wants to be to her son.
"Tell me please who you are?" Rohan demands stupidly. The youth is not as keen on an answer as to start talking with the towering personality of the sexiest lady of earth and paradise whose flavor overwhelms his body and mind. He cannot wait to dip in the charms of the goddess of love, sex, and feminism, no matter she is his mother. Yet it matters most that she is what she is: a biological mother and an impostor sister.
"The both," Diksha pops, greening from ear to ear. Her golden earrings flash with her wicked green. Her eyes consume him with an all-encompassing sexual appetite. She takes off her blazer with one jerk and throws it to the other side of the hall-room. She makes it known clear that today they will play more wicked games. Their heaven will be now more debauched, but more pleasant and more livable.
"Baby," Diksha cries. "Baby, my baby, come to me."
She had never undressed so quickly. Undressing her is always fun to Rohan. But now she is doing it all by herself. She takes off her t-shirt and her slacks. The slack goes with her blazer, but the t-shirt lodges on Rohan's head. She knows how he loves the warmth of her body in her discarded attires. Now that she is stripped to her bra and panties, she considers leaving them for him. She does not want to deprive him the pleasure of denuding her breasts and womanhood, whatever her urge is.
The damp cotton of her attire covers his face. The warm scent of his mother fills his nostrils. He fills his lungs, breathing in deeply in the clean perspiration of his mother in her discarded attire. His manhood responds to the loving feel of this twisted intimacy between the two animalistic beings of one flesh and blood. He gathers her regal garment in her palms and caresses it as if he is caressing her soft skin. He is cursed with an ecstatic shut between his eyelids and does not see in what glory she is waiting in front of him.
Diksha's heart fills with sublime love when she sees how much he adores her discarded attire. It's an outer garment. What would he do to inner ones, she ponders; and her most inner garment, her maternal panties soak wetness in their warm crotch. She feels it in her skin when a trimmed bunch of her pubic hair receives the wetness of her desire. A part of the warm secretion spreads over her ever-fidgety clitoris. Aha, heaven, aha paradise, she wallows in the tormenting pleasure of waiting and anticipation.
Holding her garment in one hand, Rohan takes off his jersey. Without losing one single second, he wears his mother's discarded t-shirt. It's a little bit tight for his unfettered torso. The damp armpits of his mother's t-shirt press on his own kinky armpits. He feels his mother's dampness wets his skin through the hair in his under-arm. This is the most intimate kink of love between them. There is also no less hot exchange of love between their bellies through her damp attire. Especially where it touches his navel. His mother's dampness touches the creases of his navel. And he presses the cups of her breasts on his nipples and feels the tingling dampness on them.
"Kinky, no; perverted, no," Diksha revels in her son's twisted gratification. "Paradise, yes."
And now he sees her. He looks straight at her tapered regal legs, from her toes until the lace of her conservative panties. He hates thongs. He loves her panties to be conservative so that they can cover her queenly hips. He loves to see the two full moons of her gorgeous hips reveal before his eyes when he slides her panties over them. She buys only those pairs of panties which he chooses for her. She is glad that he chooses those in which she feels businesslike at work, not the ones which give a lady the feel of a nakedness when she is performing an earthly responsibility.
His eyes climb up the solid muscle of his mother's Athenic thighs. He stares at the heavenly sight of her fortune, covered in his favorite undergarment, between her thighs and waist. Her hips are perfect. A smoke of warmth hovers like a vapor on the damp sight where the fabric covers her pubic hair. If he was denied any other charm of her body, he could masturbate day after day only to the sight of her hips and her pubes in her panties and live happily all his life without desiring any other nasty thing of this unholy world. But he is fortunate that she is kind and generous and denies him nothing.
He looks at her sexy waist. The flat mass of her belly muscle is one of God's most generous gifts. The older she grows the more beautiful and deeper her navel becomes. And yet, she is not growing at all in other parts of her body. Her curves are becoming agiler day by day. Her hips, breasts, and her portal to her innermost paradise are growing, but only in reverse.
She is the master of her health, her sex, and her sexiness. She is in full command. She is certainly the most knowledgeable lady in five continents.
Rohan devours the sight of her breasts, covered in her white maternal bra. Those healthy breasts have been giving a man pleasure only for two years; and that man is he, a juvenile all-the-time horny young man. As far as he knows now, the other time they were touched was only once when she was fourteen when a wayward prince impregnated her. But she has taken care of those blissful gourds all these years and he is now harvesting them for his pleasure. He is glad that she has taken care of her body.
'Who knows, she has planned everything ever since I was very young, and she has taken care of her breasts thinking of me,' the post-mature son thinks gleefully. Whatever, she does not need a pair of bra to support her solid breasts. Yet she wears them, because it is thought to be decent. But she wears them nowadays mostly to give him the pleasure of taking them off with his own hands.
He looks at her long neck. A small necklace adorns her golden neck. An invisible line of feminine wisp crawls toward her hair. She is not missing one single second of his devouring her glories with his eyes. When his eyes meet her head, she unclips the mass of her hair and let it fall over her shoulder, an act of sheer eroticism, but romantic and sweet, because she is the only mother in the city or country or the world who is doing it for the pleasure of her son, not for a disgusting beast in the name of husband, fiancé, lover, or pimp.
Finally their eyes meet as he looks at his beautiful mother. Lust and love brings blood to their faces. They are in the heaven of their dream. But their dream is their reality. It is dream because it is rare that a mother and son love each other this much and this way. It is reality because they are doing it. She is feeling it in the seeping wetness running to the opening of her motherhood. He is feeling it in the growing rage of his filial manhood. He takes off his boxer, exposes his fully-hard manhood to the hungry eyes of his mother. The incestuous couple jumps into each other's arms. Their lips meet in an all-consuming kiss.
In autumn in this part of the world, nature falls on the earth in the garb of a foggy blanket. In the city, only those people are blessed with this romantic blessing who have a garden adjacent to their house. Diksha and Rohan are lucky that they have a thick strip of rose garden surrounded by a wild bush. The house is in a part of the city. But they enjoy all four seasons in it because of the garden. The house is walled on one side with thick blue glass. They can see everything outside but from outside nobody can see them. And there are no humans in their premises to watch over their act of love.
Their bodies are ablaze, not with the autumn heat to kill which they have air-condition, but with the heat of a dog and a bitch whom autumn makes so horny that the bitch thanks her Creator for the knot in the nail of her dog for which she can keep him inside her throughout the season. Growing thirsty with this doggie arousal, they keep drinking one another's saliva. The mother, less thirsty but hornier, drinks drop by drop her son's liquid spit. The son, thirsty like the dog he is, drinks voraciously chewing on his mother's juicy tongue. Their lips clasp together. Their tongues love each other as if the two oral digits are their own marital pair, a bride and groom, enjoying their own flavored world of warmth and sensuality sliding from side to side on each other, opening one's taste buds on another's. Rohan often touches his mother's soft mouth walls with the tip of his tongue, gathers clean watery saliva from the creases and brings in a pool on her tongue. Then lapping inward, he drinks. It's sheer worship of her oral sexuality. If not for any other reason, she loves the powerful act of his devilish tongue only for its wicked capacity to force her oral inertia and give her the feel of being worshipped with the most manly means a lady can dream of only in her wildest dream.
His wild rod of fuck-flesh touches every bit of her naked belly. The slamming of her son's aroused manhood exhausts her belly of blood which runs up to her pussy-lips and the mound of her clitoris, distending these delicate parts of her sex painfully. Her pussy juices sloppily spread all over her pubic mound. Thanks to her clinging panties, the liquid-flow reaches the upper edge of her pubic hair and touches the waistband of her panties. She is more aware of the hot dues that gather in the hollow of her rosebud anus. The smoke in her belly-button grows darker as the wild cock throbs across her navel's sexy ridges.
Diksha tightens her grip around his son, smothering him with her powerful breasts. She clasps fistful of his muscles just for the sheer pleasure of their manliness. Gathering his untamed torso in an overwhelming maternal embrace, she takes both his lips between her soft motherly lips and wetly chews on their manly softness. After the adoring-thank-you kiss, she looks into his eyes, with the meekness of a bride but the sexiness of the goddess that she became to him since the first day she opened her shapely thighs for his enjoyment.
"I am the both, poor boy," she says lovingly, not taking her eyes off his. "I am your sister, because I raised you as a brother. You cannot forget the loving sister that I am to you, nor can I forget the juvenile brother that you are to me. But, my dear child, think of the truth now revealed to you. I carried you in my womb when I was only fourteen. I was myself a child when I carried you. As I was very young, it was difficult for me to feel that I was your mother. I feel more like a sister than a mother. But we have to accept biology. We have to accept that you got life in my womb, I fed you with my blood, and you grew up in my womb. You first saw the beautiful earth through the opening of my motherhood. You know my smell, my feel, and my emotion. You are my child. As I am growing old, I feel motherly affection for you. Listen Rohan, the warm shelter between a sister's legs is heaven, but the peaceful sanctuary between a mother's thighs is paradise. And you can have both. I envy you, poor Rohan. Think of your friends, all the horny youths, thinks all they have a horny manhood suspended from their waist, crying in sadness and melancholy, and there is no pussy around to bless it. Think how lucky you are. Don't you love me Rohan? Don't you love me, whoever am I, your mother or sister? But it is so much the better that I am your mother, that I raised you as a brother. My pleasure doubles when I hug you as both a submissive brother and a juvenile child. Doesn't it make you happy, son? That I am your loving elder sister and mother, that I am letting you fulfill your manly needs with me. I try to be feminine for you. So that not only motherly or sisterly love, you can enjoy the love of a sweetheart. So that you can enjoy all the sex you need in this vital times of your young life? Tell me son, tell me you love me. You forgive me for any misfortune that might or might not befall you, but don't tell that you don't like what I do for you."
Both mother and son look at each other with tearful eyes. Two big pools of tears fill Diksha's deep eyes to the brim. The reticent Rohan feels hot tears slide over his blushed cheeks. Diksha's soliloquy is what has been boiling in his fuming mind, word for word. If Rohan was not aware of her intellectual and spiritual capacity, he would be astonished at its dormant lucidity. He has prepared him for the same statement. But thanks God, she gave it. Otherwise he would miss the sheer seductiveness with which she wrapped him throughout her warm sexy utterance of every musical word. Without Diksha, this earth would have been dim and unattractive, and endlessly boring.
The incestuous couple wallows in some sadness that does not exist. They are tearful because of the chemistry of love that they recreate faking the sadness of misfortune of their past which they do not care about. But it is good to make themselves feel their love more deeply in this way. This heavenly love makes them want each other more intensely than ever. Diksha's healthy nipples make it known through her thick brassier.
Rohan holds the strings of her brassier and kisses on her back below the clip that joins the two ends. Her flesh responds like the forming of a nipple or clitoral hood at the touch of his manly lips. He peels the two flat strings from her damp leather as if it is not denuding his mother's breasts but an act of playful adoration ordained by divinity. He scuttles on her front not to miss the unshackling of her cringing nipples. Lovingly, he slides down the wide cups, feeling the obstinacy of his mother's impliable breasts against the sliding apparel. The purple nipples stand steeply before his lustful eyes.
The round globes of desire crave his attention, salute him as if he is not her son, but the king of her feminine fortunes.
Diksha takes her worn t-shirt off Rohan's surrendering torso. Rohan is upset that she has not allowed him to take one of her red nipples between his lips.
Diksha is in her panties and in her stylish half-heeled Milanese shoes. But Rohan is stark naked. Diksha's eyes fall on his prickly boy nipples. They are small and invisible. But they are sharper than jungle nettles when he is aroused. Diksha can't swallow the naughtiness formed in her breast at the sight of her boy's aroused nipples. She hugs him, clasping his manly asses. Her palms burn on his ass-muscles. But it is her nipples that are now in real ecstasy.
Their chests nicely fit against each other's. With practiced movement, she brings his nipples under the control of her motherly nipples. Her whole body jerks as his stiff nettles prick the flattened creases of her own aroused nipples.
She clasps his asses for her dear life. This feel, her boy's sharp nipples pricking her dry but healthy grape fruits, gives her the most intense non-orgasmic ecstasy of incestuous sex. Today the feel is more intense, because this is the first time she can make it know that the nipples making love to his nettles belong not only to his loving elder sister, but also to his very sexy mother, who carried him in her young womb 20 years ago.
Their Invincible Love Ch. 05
bySecretLoverOIE©
God has not made this earth only for quarreling with each other, or slaughtering each other's throat, or shitting into each other's mouth. Rohan thinks of beastly scenes of men fighting men in the troubled places of the world and curses those who do not value incestuous love but fight each other for nothing, only for the worthless sake of their filthy sentiment. Otherwise how easily one could value this ecstatic sensation from their mothers' warring nipples, Rohan contemplates gratifyingly. He pushes his fingers under her waistband, into the hips of her panties, and clasps her sloping assess with as much thrill as she clasps his. The vapor in the crack of his mother's full-moon asses purifies his crispy palms, which are authoritative on her flesh.
"We will discover God," Diksha says, feeling the nettle of his right nipple attack the opening of her left nipple, "If there is One."
Diksha hisses into his ears, whispering hotly and touching lovingly the curves of his ear-sheet with her vapid tongue. "We will discover the nothingness if there is NONE. Until then you are my God, my erotic God. My sexy, young brother." She manages the opening of her right nipple in the right position to swallow the nettle of his left nipple. "My SON." She hisses out of the ecstatic success of feeling the nettling pricks simultaneously into the both opening of her maternal breasts.
To make love with her is philosophic, is intellectual, is spiritual, Rohan ruminates. She is sexy, but she is a philosopher.
Diksha kisses Rohan. Her vapid lips seal his lustful lips. Her tongue crawls into his mouth and flatly presses on his tongue in a vice-like grip. Her wide breasts cut through the manly hair on his chest and touches his thin skin. Rohan thinks he is in eighth heaven against his mother's flattening breasts.
Diksha's cunt-lips open on their own volley. The mass of her cunt-flesh dances without a mate. Countless endings of her nerves cry for release into the walls of her pussy-tunnel. The nerves are not jealous that her son's cock is still dancing on her belly. They are not jealous of his pre-cum which fills her navel but which is meant to bath the head of those nerves that are blessed to reach her pussy-meat. Those nerves dance wildly, without remorse, without jealousy, and promise what they are capable of. Among all this dancing, her clitoris stands against the entire world, shouts with maternal joy of raping a son's chest with mother's breasts.
Diksha's body and mind give in to the most ecstatic un-penetrative orgasm of her sexual life.
"Are you hungry, bro?" Diksha asks, battering her black lashes coquettishly. An obdurate smirk attempts to hide her blush of depravity.
Her cheeks are red. Calling Rohan brother is now sexier than ever. Diksha notes the affect of her wickedness on Rohan's countenance. Now that their relation is known, this shameless role-play is utterly promising of perpetual good time in the life of the incestuous libertines. Gazing at his widened eyes, Diksha reads arousal. Her freshly gratified pussy-meat twitches sweetly round her feminine cave of fleshy slopes. Her clitoris lurches several times before slumping into semi-erect position.
Rohan reciprocates his mother's sneer with a shy green. Like her, he is blushed up to his earlobes. She played mother when he knew she was his sister. She is playing sister when he knows she is his mother. This change of role hits his hormone system, splatters desire along the threads of his mind and body, boosts up his hunger to chew on her raw flesh. This change of role keeps him constantly horny for his young mother, as the perfect pacing in a Tolstoy novel keeps the reader hooked from beginning to end.
"Are you hungry, BRO?" Diksha asks throatily.
Rohan is hungry. He has not taken enough nourishment in the afternoon because Diksha had promised to take him out for dinner. But he is reluctant to make a fuss over it. He keeps silent. This is the only way to make his indefatigable mother to continue to play her sexy role.
Diksha offers him her tongue, sticking the healthy oral digit out, for mitigating his hunger. Rohan sucks on it, as Isaac sucked on his mother Hagar's tongue while his father Abraham was running from one mountain to another in search of water. Rohan is, in fact, not that much thirsty or hungry. But sucking on Diksha's tongue out of her mouth is fun, satisfying. Arousal takes over the not-perfectly-full feel in his stomach.
They are sitting on the sofa facing the west. Diksha's left thigh is on Rohan's right thigh. Spiraling lithely over his manly leg, she messages his calf muscles between her toes, drawing an occasional whimper from his closed mouth. Through the glassed window, the setting sun focuses its slanted rays on her defiant breasts and Rohan's hairy chest. Rohan takes an occasional glimpse on his mother's pointed nipples, reddened by the setting sun.
They are happy, content, and inspired to face life together in the face of adversities.
Rohan's cock is standing up from between his legs. After all, he has not had a climax for three days while Diksha just had one. With its olive skin extending, his cock is like a persevering hero in his glorious victories, enduring and dignified. It is twitching invisibly as it receives rushes of blood with his mother's ministration of his calf muscles with her sexy toes. A drop of pre-cum whizzes at the opening and Diksha's eyes fall on its bulbous head. The site wakes up her body from the slumber of the orgasm, banishes away the last vestiges of orgasmic lethargy from her lust-filled mind.
Extending her left hand, playfully touching his chin with her regal arm, she fists his ever-standing manhood and admires its girth.
"Poor baby," she mutters into his ear.
Her agile thumb lids on his pee-hole and baths in his pre-cum. Her feminine finger prods on the bulbous head, coats itself with his secretion. She turns a little to his side, changes hand to hold his cock with her right hand.
Staring at his peaceful eyes, she sucks her left thumb and drinks the pool of pre-cum she has gathered in the hollow of her manicured nail.
The site is utterly satisfying to Rohan. His mother's left breast is pressing to his right arm. Diksha is half-leaned against him. She holds his cock with her right hand, slides her palm along its texture, feels the rush of blood along the blue veins. She stoops over his cock, a mass of thin saliva drops on its head. She gathers the fluid on her palm and massages his shaft.
"Is it better, Bro?" she coos, looking hotly in his eyes.
It is only the beginning of her kinkiness, Rohan thinks. Diksha holds his right hand with her left hand and puts it gently on her belly. He feels the crisps of dried pre-cum on her flat belly muscle. With his hand, she sweeps her belly from one side to another, from the base of her breasts until his fingers reach the waistband of her panties. It would be the feel of love and intimacy if he had his climax with her. But he has not had his climax. The gentle strokes of his palm and fingers against the thick leather of her belly make him cry to fuck her and cum inside her pussy.
"How long can you sustain, baby bro?" Diksha asks, pushing his helping fingers under the waistband of her panties.
"For an eternity," Rohan stammers.
His mockery thrills her; her clitoris stands up with a sharp jerk. It is, but, a pledging mockery, a promise to persevere to make himself behave for her pleasure. Some tears of lust-filled love gather in Diksha's eyes. Closing and opening her eyelids, she clears her vision.
"Only for this, Rohan, only for your master sense of humor, I can love you for the ETERNITY." Diksha blushes profoundly. There is nothing maternal or sisterly in her tone. It is utterly humble, like when a princess vows to a prince.
But Diksha is not a naive princess. She is a successful journalist, a depraved and damn-care mother. Her insistent hand pushes Rohan's eager hand into the crotch of her cum-wet panties. His middle finger rows over the hill of her elongated clitoris. Her wet pubic hair is a heath in a tropical swamp under his palm. He rakes the wet locks lovingly.
"Why do you like it so much?" Diksha asks, raking in reciprocity his dry pubic bush with her middle fingers, while she holds the base of his cock with her thumb.
"What do I don't love in you?" Rohan says.
"But you seem to like mommy's thicket more than anything else." She presses his palm on her matted thatch.
"Because it stands for your personality."
Diksha shrieks with a heartfelt laughter. "How come you find your mother's personality in her pubic hair?" she screams.
"I can't think of you as my mother. It will take time to reconcile with the idea."
"Never mind, handsome," Diksha says, tightening her grip around his erect manhood, "so long as it is this hard for me."
"I am always hard for you."
"And I am always dry."
Diksha is still holding Rohan's hand. She pushes it down until his middle finger passes over her erect clitoris and reaches her long slit. As if it is a raft in the middle of the sea, her labia begin to flap against his finger. She adjusts his finger so that it enters into her vagina. She keeps pressing down until the entire finger disappears in the hot cave.
"And I am always dry," Diksha hisses into his ear. His finger is dipped in her lava. She spread her thighs, so that her pussy walls spread too, making him feel the hot syrup filling to the lips of her pussy.
A car bomb blasts 51 men, women, and children in a bazaar near Baghdad. A teen mason falls face down from the 27th floor of a building under construction in the suburb of New Delhi and is speared by a stuck-out rod across his belly while plummeting down the second floor. The Taliban is flogging a 14 year old girl in Kandahar. A bridge collapses on the Mississippi. A Welsh broker shoots himself through one ear and out the other in London. Heaven opens and closes its door on Rohan's middle finger while the rest of the world is burning in hell-fire unleashed by man who was supposed to be a benign creature.
Diksha pulls Rohan's hand out of her panties. Her juices run along its middle finger like a froth of hot cheese. She pushes the wet finger through her lips as she will do his cock through the gate of her cunt later on. She tastes her on his finger; most of the wetness finds its place on her lips. Her tongue touches the pad of his finger sexily.
"Kiss me, child," Diksha says. "Show me how much you love your mother."
Diksha stands on her feet, walks gracefully, and stands facing the window. She is aware that her panty-covered hips are charming her son. Her pointed breasts are tranquil like the lull before a storm. A wicked charm is rippling on her Athenic thighs. There is no haste, no edginess in her gait, although her blood is boiling for the touch of her son's cock in her throbbing womanhood.
Rohan is equally sanguine. Any nineteen year old would kill a woman if she frustrates his cock half as much Diksha has frustrated his. Yet he is sitting with a hermitic peace, then looking at her asses and now looking at her breasts.
"You are getting thin," he says, looking at her flat belly.
"Why not Bro?" Diksha smiles. "You will never marry me if I am fat like an elephant."
Diksha holds Rohan's hands and pulls him up. "Kiss me, as if I am your 18 years old bride. Kiss me if you ever want to marry me."
Diksha's lips are soft, hot, and flavored with her juices, collected from his finger. If he could stand the growing pressure of blood in his manhood, he would straight dive his face into her panties and eat her cunt, so much he loves her spicy nectar. But for now he decides to be content with only what her lips hold. He sucks her upper lip like a lollipop and her lower lip like a chewing gum. He makes sure he sucks well, cleans her lips of her pussy juices, as clean as when she takes a shower.
"This is not kissing," Diksha says. "This is molestation." She pushes his hands under her waistband until they are lodged on her hips. "Enjoy them," she murmurs, "while I teach you how to kiss your 18 years old bride."
Rohan clasps the damp flesh of his mother's ass, separates the ass cheeks. He revels in their velvety smoothness. His hands move until the furthest horizon of her haunches. He pushes onto the bones on her sides and enjoys his charge. Diksha's flesh becomes live under his grasp. His two index fingers meet together and together they touch her rectum, and plays with the humid orifice.
"My boy, what pleasure do you get touching your mother's asshole?" Diksha asks, pressing her tummy onto his ramrod. Her pointed nipples caress his hairy chest. She kisses his nipples, one after another, playing with the tip of her tongue on them, wetting them with her saliva.
Rohan trembles at the touch of his mother's mouth on his sensitive nettles. She raises his left arm, and gently chews on the bunch of hair under his arm. She tastes her son's sweat, drinks satisfyingly from his armpit for her nourishment. Rohan moans loudly when she laps at the pit of his right arm. Diksha kisses softly his Adam's apple, presses her full lips on his taut neck.
Rohan clasps his mother's asses for his life, leaving his finger marks on her flesh. His mother holds his cheeks with her palms and touches his lips with her lips. "You must kiss your bride like this," she says, disengaging herself. She puts her lips along his lips softly. She is gentle, as if he is not a virile young man, but an illicit lesbian partner.
Her lips are like liquid vanilla on his lips. Her breaths are scented with jasmine. His fine chest hairs cut through her tit-flesh here and there. Mimicking his molesting kiss, she drowns his upper and lower lips respectively with the crumbling vanilla of her fluid lips.
Rohan's tongue, hard and aroused, pushes of its own volley through her lips and teeth and touches her wet tongue. She accepts his tongue on the flat of her tongue; curving, she covers his oral digit from both sides, and holds it there.
Caressing his tongue this way for several moments, she offers him her tongue inside his mouth. Her juicy tongue is agile against his sturdy tongue. Mother and son french each other for several minutes until Rohan begins to slide Diksha's panties over her hips.
Rohan inhales his mother's wet panties. He wipes his face with it as if it is a sterile towel. He wipes his chest, his neck, and his armpits with the holy wetness of his mother's undergarment.
Diksha is naked except for her Milanese shoes and her socks. Rohan steals glimpses at his mother's calves covered by the transparent socks. The site is sexy and feminine. He feels like stroking her claves from across her socks. Sitting at her feet, he feels her sock-covered calves against his face. He takes off her shoes, and raising each foot, he kisses her sock-covered toes. He peels each sock from her legs and wears them on him. He puts her shoes on her.
Rohan is stark naked except for his mother's socks. He is two inches taller than his mother's five-six. But on her shoes, her head reaches almost his head.
"You want to fuck me, don't you baby?" Diksha says, raking her pubic bush with his erect penis. She is holding it, almost painfully for him. She strokes his cock across the longitude of her raised clitoris. "If you want to fuck me, you have to talk dirty." She positions his ramrod along the slit of her pussy, giving the bulbous head the first sip of her pussy juice to taste. "If you don't talk dirty, you have to put up with this teasing." She pulls his rigid cock downward, tries to reach her asshole with his cockhead.
Rohan keeps silent. If not, he wouldn't have enjoyed the sexiness of his mother. "I am a wicked mother," she says. "If I am to be fucked by my son, I am talked dirty too by my son." She swipes his cock along her slit, giving the hungry cockhead another sip of her pussy juice to bath in. She makes the rigid cock slither in the wide garden of her pubic forest.
"My mother is a saint, a prudish businesswoman. My mother is an ice-queen. My mother's pussy was stretched only twice. Once when a man servant forced himself on her and once when she gave birth to me," Rohan says in a sing-song fashion. "My mother turned to God, exchanged her sex for God's love. My mother is a unique example of asexual piety."
Diksha kisses Rohan, a motherly lip-kiss. She pushes the half of his bulbous head into the folds of her labia. Her soft inner lips are snug against the hard cock-meat.
"My son is a bastard. My son has no morality. He fucks me morning and evening. He combs my pubic hair for hours with his fingers. He takes my breasts in his mouth and kisses my nipples as if I am his personal whore. He fucks me from behind as if I am a street bitch in summer heat. He eats my pussy as if my house is in a perpetual famine. He drinks my juices as if the country has no drinking water."
Rohan steals a moment and attempts to shove his cock into his mother's cunt. Diksha stops him. What he gets is a painful fist around his girth. "Utter some dirty words, baby bro," Diksha coos, giving his cock another sip of her cunt juice. "Or sonny's bird will not enter mommy's nest."
"Let me, Diksha," Rohan cries. "Or I will pull out your tits." Rohan pulls at his mother's breasts as if they are a pair of young turkeys and he wants to squeeze them to death.
Diksha avenges by tightening her fist around his rod. She is not kind and his cock suffers a moment of acute pain.
"Don't dare call me Diksha again," Diksha says angrily. "I am your mother."
"Mother, let me." Rohan surrenders.
"And you are such a bastard," Diksha pushes her vagina onto his cock three inches forward, "you want to fuck your mother."
"Oh fuck," Rohan cries, measuring the depth of difference in feel between the two parts of his cock, one part sunk inside his mother's cunt and other part in her grip.
"Please MOM," Rohan entreats.
It works this time. Diksha steadily pushes her son's large cock into her cunt until their pubic hairs are woven. There is no doubt that Rohan has accepted her as his mother. The deep bass of his voice speaks lucidly that she is his mother. Her body and mind undergo a Bolshevik revolution. Hot tears well up from her soul. He has needed nineteen years to call her MOM and she has waited to here this word from his mouth nineteen years. Her maternal emotion releases fresh juices around her son's cock. Her pussy walls collapse on his iron-hard manhood from all sides in eternal surrender. Her arms embrace her son victoriously. She has never thought she is capable of such maternal sentiment.
"Baby, my baby," she weeps, kissing him ferociously, "Please, call me MOTHER one more time?"
Maternal tenderness from her heart erupts in volcanic proportion and mixes with the sugary syrup in her womanhood. Every part of her body kisses and caresses every part of her son's body. She has never found such tender love in her heart for her son. Faking his sister seems so unreal to her. Mother and son are bonded with the threads of most original love and no other bond can surpass it.
Rohan, for the first time in his life, knows what it is meant to have a mother. The natural child Rohan is born of a motherhood at the age of nineteen, not out of his mother's womb, but inside his mother's sex. It's new to him, and sudden. So radical is the change that he feels as if he is a new being, without juvenile ego, without youthful frivolity, but with the knowledge of a new door opened to the deepest recess in his heart where a new tenderness, a new love, is entering in torrents from the heart of the sexiest, most beautiful and matter-of-fact lady of his academic and practical knowledge whom he has known to be his elder sister for the nineteen years of his past. That tenderness, that unprecedented love fills his heart. His soul recognizes her, his mother.
"MOTHER," Rohan declares. He hugs her not as a sister, not as a sex queen, not as an erotic witch, but simply as his mother. He feels her skin against his with hitherto unknown intimacy. He feels her breasts against his chest, her belly against his, her pubic hair against his, her pussy around his cock, and her thighs against his. These touches now have new meanings, new depths. His hand is all over her maternal back, on her gentle slopes and curves, on the fleshy moons of her golden ass, on the sides of her regal arms, on the nape of her slender neck, on the grace of her spinal carve. His cock lurches inside her sex with a convulsive rhythm to the victory of universally acclaimed original motherhood. He curses post-Ham earth, Ham, the good son of Noah, the last erotic lover to maternal sexuality. The Pharos and the Ptolemies and odd-man-out Caligula faked it, but it was loveless sex, the search for a regal heir. Only Ham's love surpasses all prehistoric incest.
"I am the Ham of the 21st Century," Rohan declares on the top of his voice.
"And I am the Suha, Noah's wife and Ham's mother, of the 21st Century," Diksha says joyfully.
Darkness descends on earth as black clouds covered the sky when Noah floated his Ark in the valley of Mount Ararat. "Ham, my son, Take your Suha to the farthest bunker of the Ark and make love to her," Diksha urges, crushing her breasts on her son's chest and thrusting herself onto his spearing cock. "Dodge your old father. Let him be busy with his affair with God, with every pair of living beings he has taken in the Ark. Take me, my son, take me in your Cabin, and make tender love to me until it clears."
Discussion of art and culture, literature and history, myth and religion has a special place in their everyday life. Diksha taught Rohan that she wanted her kid brother to live the best possible life. Literature and philosophy are the most sublime explanation of man's acquired knowledge. Rohan thus grew up being interested in these subjects since he learned to read and write. This sublime undertaking has contributed to their sexual liberty. In course of time they discovered its unlimited scope and thus inevitable place in their paradise. The evening darkness and their isolation from the outside world have created the aura in the Ark of Noah in their own house in the very part of their city. Diksha throws away her Milanese shows, descends toward earth two inches from Rohan whom the dreamy circumstance makes the Ham of the modern day. Needless to say that she has disengaged her sex from her son's for a passionate lovemaking on Noah's Ark.
Rohan carries Diksha in his arms. Her legs gracefully dangle from her knees. Her left hand encircles his neck. Craning her neck, she gazes constantly at her son's dreamy eyes in the semi-darkness. On her tilted-supine position, her solid breasts stand on their wide base and her nipples are pointed toward his eyes.
They have never been so close. Diksha's lips touch the creases at his armpits. It's a motherly kiss-like touch. But it's also an intimate sexual act. She loves the smell of her son's labor, dedicated for her depraved pleasure. She touches the cringes at his left armpit with the tip of her tongue. She laps across the cringes lovingly. The lingual petting increases her sexual hunger and she pushes her tongue across the cringes and tastes his sweat in the hair under his arm.
Only now she understands fully why her son likes to make love to her armpits with his tongue. It's her fetish, as much as it's his. His sex must respond to her scent the same way as her clitoris is responding to his scent. It's arousing her so serenely that she can make love to his armpits with her tongue and lips for hours. She understands that the dormant cause of this fetish is love between them, not only for their incestuous bondage, but for many commonalities they nurture together in their life, Diksha as an intellectual teacher and Rohan as a devout student. The tender sex between her legs has not stopped raining. But it rains now even the more as she drenches her son's underarm with her oral fluid while she eats his sweat and plays with his nipples.
"Ham, your Suha has never been so aroused in her life," Diksha says as Rohan has gently put his mother on her bed. He switches on the three dim-lights.
The dim-lights Diksha bought a few months after their first incestuous coitus. In the mixture of these three lights of three different colors, they find each other in a dreamland. Neither mother nor son forget that tonight their incestuous bed is Ham's chamber on Noah's Ark. The dim-lights produce a semblance of gloominess which helps them think that they are on Noah's Ark under thousand clouds and their chamber is lit with some prehistoric candles.
"My boy, however horny am I, be gentle to me tonight. Never forget that you are going to fuck your mother for the first time in your life knowing that she is your mother. This is the first time I am going to be fucked by my son knowing that my son knows that he is fucking his mother. Tonight is special, my boy. Cultivate it to the maximum of your ability. Touch me as if I'm a fragile flower. Think I'm an eighteen years old virgin, has never been touched by a man. Come to me, my son; kiss me as I have taught you how to kiss a teenage girl. Then make love to me. Think that you are on pilgrimage; your ultimate destination is your mother's womb."
Rohan forgets his aroused manhood as his mother urges him to fuck her. Diksha never speaks from her throat. She utters every syllable from inside her being. Any sensible man can fall in love with her only for the depth of her tongue. But nothing of it can be compared to the way she has just urged him to make love to her. Every word has been released from the deepest layer of her soul and every word floated like a mythical bubble from the deepest pit of the seabed.
Rohan's eyes are wet from the passion she has inspired in him. He's aware that he has not had a climax for long three days and his cock is not accustomed to this tortured abstention since their first incestuous fuck. But this is also not a time for animal orgasms. His mother has made it clear that tonight is for the most sublime lovemaking of their taboo life. He has decided to forgo a banal climax for their lovemaking. He has such control on him mind and body that his formerly cum-crazy cock has now receded to a semi-erect position.
"For you, Mother," he says holding her both feet across her toes.
"My life is for you, MOTHER." Rohan brings his mother's feet together.
Two most beautiful feminine big-toes -- slender and graceful -- of the world touch each other. He touches his mother's toenails, polished by an invisible Armani nail-polish, with the pads of his thumbs. He washes his nostrils with their humid air, breathing in deeply. His brain receives the first signal of the most challenging lovemaking of his life from the lemon-scent of his mother's big-toes. His mouth waters. His lips twitch convulsively and become wet.
"My sex is for you, MOM." He slips his lips along the smooth texture of his mother's big toes.
Diksha pushes a pillow under her head and looks at the ashen shade on her son's lush black hair. She feels like unclipping her hair, but decides to do it when he looks. Every pour of her body stands at ease at her son's attention on her big toes. Queen Sheba had not had this thrill the night 121 Pharaohnic slaves kissed her toes ordained by King Solomon.
'How come my boy's lips are so wet for his mother's toes,' Diksha wonders.
"You are my perfect son, BABY," Diksha says. Her voice is husky. "Touch the flesh under mommy's nail with your tongue. Mommy promises to reciprocate someday."
Rohan is enthralled by the richness of his mother's calf muscles. They are feminine, yet they have some masculine stoutness. He touches them with the same possessiveness as he does her ass and breasts. He strokes her calves and kisses the hollowness at her knees. Diksha helps him by bending her legs.
"Mom, I want to touch your legs when you are dressed, say, when you are in a long pleated skirt"
"Why son? Don't I attract you when I am naked?"
"I haven't said it mother. You are more graceful when you are naked. Your naked beauty is too much for me and my heart aches in love for you. Besides, I feel in full possession of you when you are naked. Sometimes, I wish you were naked in front of all the time. Thus I would never want to go outside, or look at other beautiful things of the world. When you stand facing the window and I look at your naked ass, I feel I am the luckiest guy in the world. But I want to do naughty things with you. I want to grope you in public. I want to see the color on your face when I pull on a tuft of your pubic hair, or dab a finger along your pussy-lips or just pinch your clitoris when strangers swarm around."
A sly grin spread along Diksha's curved lips. She memorizes her son's wishes. She wants to do something for him this moment. But she also has some stern feel in her heart.
"You are growing, my son," she says. "Perhaps faster than I want."
Diksha's admonition takes Rohan aback.
She is a respectable lady, he thinks. He regrets hurting her sense of decency. How many mothers allow their sons to love them the way she allows her? His hands mechanically withdraw from her body. He drops his eyes in embarrassment and they fall on the glow of her youthfully heavy thighs.
No charm on earth or paradise can be compared to what Diksha's two confident thighs can spell. They are like two horizontal columns of sand dunes that have been burned and smoothened by sunlight and hot air over last six millenniums since the cavemen engraved the crying cow in the cave in Sahara. The long shiny dunes meet at a Saharan oasis, her Garden of Eden, which has its own spring to quench the centuries old thirst of a man. The Garden looks to have been ravaged by a whirlwind. Diksha's cum-matted pubic hair, half-swollen clitoris, and obscenely peeking cunt-lips inspire passion in Rohan's heart as a post-hurricane American village does compassion in its Sherriff. His lips twitch and his tongue reels to re-plant every tree in her pubic garden, to clear every bit of debris here and there, and to heal all physical and psychological wounds in her netherlands.
His eyes hover on the Garden, and strays onto her thighs. They are glowing in the dim lights as sand dunes do in a full-moon night of August.
What if she covers them this moment and forever, Rohan think of Diksha's thighs? What if she asks him not to touch her again and decides to climb the bed of the president of the republic? He cannot go out on the street tomorrow morning and cry that his mother, or sister as she is known to the outside world, let him fuck her until yesterday and suddenly imposed a ban which he cannot endure. Rohan's frustration can be measured by only the depth of his love for his mother.
Diksha watches Rohan like a hawk and doesn't miss a moment of it. She wants him as a man, a virile and strong man who would possess her mind and body. But she doesn't want to lose the son she has needed to have nineteen years. Now that she has seen how much she is able to embarrass and humiliate him with only one single statement, she knows for sure that she will never lose him as her son. Her thighs, whatever graceful they are, are just two thighs of a 35 years old woman. Yet, how lustfully he admires them.
"I'm sorry, baby," she says. She splays her right leg and throws it on his other side and Rohan finds himself between her legs. This way, being open to her son between her legs, she feels more naked, more wicked, and sexier. Stooping a little toward him, she holds his hands in hers and put them on her inner thighs. She presses his palms on her flesh until she feels his fingers mark on her skin. As she feels from his touch that he has regained his confidence, she releases his hands.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, son," she says, without faking emotion.
Rohan will never forget the graceful movement of his mother's left leg when she threw it on his left side. It was supposed to be a vulgar act but she has performed a piece of sublime art. He kneads the softer parts of her inner thighs looking at her pointed breasts.
Diksha touches his chin, makes him look at her eyes. She stares at his eyes for several pregnant moments. She then roared with an indulgent laughter.
The laughter is the categorical proof of Diksha's devilish capacity to arouse her son. She holds his neglected cock in her right hand. "I love to hold my baby's fish when it is semi-erect. It fills mommy's fist perfectly. But what I like most is its throbs against my palm as it keeps growing. You don't know, my son, how it is to be aware every second of it that it is getting harder for me, because I'm naked in front of you."
"Do you want to see for yourself how the growing of your cock excites mother's pussy?" Her voice is motherly. Without waiting for his answer, she grabs his right hand with her free hand. She gathers all his fingers in her grip except his index finger which becomes a pointer. She presses the pad of his index finger on the hood of her growing clitoris.
"You can do some naughty things to mother when she is naked also," Diksha says.
Rohan's alert sense doesn't miss the touch of soft hairs around her clitoris.
"The arousal of mommy's love bud is synchronized with baby's fish," she says.
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