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.