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.
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.