"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.
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.