"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.
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.