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.