Incest Mrs. Chatterjee opens a massage parlor at home

[cutekomal]

The first ray of dawn slipped through the gap in the curtains like a voyeur and landed directly on Paromita’s sweat-sheened skin.  
She was still impaled.

Rahul lay flat on his back beneath her, chest heaving, cock buried so deep in her pussy that every breath he took nudged the head against her cervix. Samir knelt behind her, thighs spread wide over Rahul’s, his thicker, heavier shaft lodged to the absolute root in her ass. The stretch was obscene; she could feel them rubbing against each other through the thin, fluttering wall inside her, could feel the slick drag of their combined precum and her own endless wetness every time she flexed.

Her mangalsutra (the last symbol of the respectable Mrs Sahil Chatterjee) swung in slow, hypnotic arcs between her breasts, the black beads and gold pendant kissing the dried cum that already striped her chest like war paint. Her nipples were dark, swollen, almost purple from hours of pinching, sucking, and slapping. Her thighs trembled violently; the muscles in her calves and lower back had long since turned to liquid fire.

Paromita’s head was thrown back, throat exposed, mouth open in a silent scream that had no voice left. Her hair (once neatly pleated the night before) now clung to her shoulders and back in wet black ropes. She looked exactly like what she had become: a woman thoroughly, gloriously, irreversibly ruined.

Inside her, two cocks pulsed weakly, trapped by the rhythmic clench of her tenth (or eleventh, she had stopped counting) orgasm. The room reeked of sex so thick it coated the tongue: latex, cum, pussy, sweat, the faint metallic trace of blood where Samir’s girth had scbangd her raw.

Rahul’s voice cracked beneath her, half plea, half prayer. “Boudi… please… I can’t… I have nothing left…”

Samir’s laugh was a low, filthy rumble against the nape of her neck. “She decides when you’re empty, boy. Not you.”

Paromita lowered her chin slowly, as if her neck weighed a thousand kilos. Her eyes (black, glassy, utterly feral) found Rahul’s first, then flicked to Samir in the mirror across the room. She saw herself: thighs spread impossibly wide, both holes stuffed and leaking, breasts heaving, mangalsutra swinging like a pendulum counting down the last seconds of her old life.

She smiled. It was not a gentle smile.

“No,” she rasped, voice shredded from screaming both their names into pillows and palms. “Not empty. One more. I want both of you to flood me again. Raw. I want to feel it drip out of me while I stand at the stove frying luchis for the maid. I want to smell you on my skin all day.”

Rahul’s hips jerked helplessly at the words, driving himself a fraction deeper. A broken sob tore out of him.

Samir’s hands tightened on her waist (ten fingerprints that would bloom into bruises by evening). “You want us to breed you, Paromita Chatterjee?” he growled, using her married name like a slap. “You want your dewar’s cum mixing with a stranger’s inside that married cunt while your husband wires money from Dubai?”

“Yes,” she hissed, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle that dragged both cocks against every nerve ending she owned. “Say it louder.”

Samir obliged, voice booming in the quiet room. “Rahul, your bhabhi wants her womb painted white by two men who aren’t her husband. Give it to her.”

Rahul’s answer was a desperate, animal sound. His hands flew to her hips, nails digging in, and he began to thrust up into her with short, frantic jerks (no rhythm, just raw need).

Paromita leaned forward, braced her palms on Rahul’s chest, and took control. She lifted until only the heads of both cocks remained inside her, paused, let them feel the sudden emptiness, then slammed herself down so hard the bedframe cracked against the wall.

Both men shouted.

She set a merciless pace (up slow, down brutal). Each descent forced a wet, obscene sound from her body (pussy and ass squelching, cum from earlier orgasms forced out around their shafts in thick, creamy rings that coated their balls and dripped onto the already ruined sheet).

“Look at me,” she commanded again.

Rahul’s eyes were wet, pupils blown wide. Samir’s were black fire.

“Look at what you’ve done to me,” she said, voice shaking with effort and triumph. “Look at your boudi turned into a cock-hungry slut because her little dewar couldn’t keep his dick out of porn.”

She reached back without looking, found Samir’s thigh, dug her nails in. “And you (stranger I paid to touch me once) you turned me into this. Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Paromita,” Samir growled, snapping his hips so hard her breasts bounced painfully. “Thank you for the tightest, greediest holes I’ve ever wrecked.”

Rahul’s sob was pure devotion. “Thank you, Boudi… thank you for letting me inside you… thank you for letting him inside you while I watch…”

The words broke something open in her. Paromita’s rhythm faltered, then turned savage. She rode them like punishment and prayer, thighs burning, breath sawing in and out of her lungs. The mangalsutra slapped against her chest with every downward thrust, the gold pendant leaving tiny red marks on her breastbone.

“Together,” she gasped. “I want it at the same time. Fill me until I overflow.”

Rahul lasted four more strokes. On the fifth he arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream, cock jerking wildly as he pumped what little he had left straight into her womb. The heat of it (thin, desperate, endless) triggered Samir. He roared, buried himself so deep she felt him in her throat, and exploded (thick, heavy pulses flooding her ass in long, obscene ropes).

Paromita came with them, a violent, full-body seizure that tore a raw, guttural scream from her throat. Her vision whited out; for several seconds she was nothing but pulsing, clenching flesh, milking both cocks dry.

When awareness returned, she was trembling, collapsed forward onto Rahul’s chest, Samir still lodged in her ass, both of them breathing like they’d run a marathon.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted herself. The withdrawal was slow, filthy, deliberate. First Samir’s thick shaft slipped free with a wet pop, followed by a gush of cum that poured out of her gaping asshole and ran down to mix with what was already leaking from her pussy. Then Rahul’s softer cock slid out, and another flood followed, thick and creamy, coating her thighs, dripping in slow rivulets onto Rahul’s stomach.

She knelt between them, legs spread wide, and looked down at the mess.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

Then she reached for Rahul’s phone (still propped against the pillow, red light blinking), and turned the camera toward herself.

“Smile, boys,” she said, voice husky and ruined. “Memory for cold nights.”

Rahul whimpered. Samir just grinned, utterly unbothered.

Paromita hit record.

For the next twelve minutes the phone captured everything in merciless high definition:

- Paromita scooping cum from her pussy and ass with two fingers, painting it across her breasts like lotion, rubbing it into her nipples until they gleamed.
- Rahul, on his knees, licking his own spend from the inside of her thigh while tears ran down his face.
- Samir, behind her, spreading her cheeks wide for the camera and pushing two fingers into her still-gaping asshole, pulling out a thick strand of his own cum and feeding it to her open mouth.
- Paromita sucking those fingers clean, eyes locked on the lens, mangalsutra swinging with every swallow.
- Both men taking turns lapping at her holes until she was spotless (tongues delving deep, coming away shining, swallowing audibly for the microphone).
- Paromita’s final, shattered orgasm when Rahul’s tongue found her clit while Samir tongue-fucked her ass, her scream echoing off the walls as she squirted (actually squirted) across Rahul’s face and chest.

When it was over she stopped the recording, saved it under the filename “Mrs. Chatterjee – First Night Raw”, locked the phone, and tossed it onto the bedside table.

Samir was already moving, muscles gleaming as he stood. “Shower,” he said. “I smell like a brothel.”

Paromita rose on shaky legs, cum still sliding down the backs of her thighs in slow, obscene trails. She looked at Rahul (still kneeling, face dripping with her release) and crooked a finger.

“Both of you. Now.”

The bathroom was tiny, the shower smaller. They squeezed in anyway (three bodies slick with sweat, cum, and the remnants of ruined innocence).

Hot water cascaded over them. Paromita stood between them like a queen between two conquered kingdoms.

Rahul washed her hair with shaking hands, fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp while whispering “sorry” and “thank you” and “I love you” in the same breath. Samir soaped her breasts with deliberate slowness, thumbs circling her nipples until they stood painfully hard again, then sliding lower to wash between her legs with the same clinical thoroughness he used on clients (except this time his fingers lingered, slipping inside her, curling, making her knees buckle).

She returned the favor with devastating care.

First Rahul: she lathered his chest, traced every rib, then sank to her knees under the spray and took his soft, spent cock into her mouth (not to arouse, but to clean). She sucked gently, tongue swirling, tasting herself and Samir and him, until he was trembling and crying again.

Then Samir: she stood, pressed her cum-slick breasts against his chest, and washed his cock with both hands (slow, worshipful strokes from root to tip, thumb rubbing the sensitive underside until he was half-hard again despite everything). She looked up at him through wet lashes.

“Next time,” she said, “you come inside my pussy too. I want to compare loads.”

Samir’s laugh was dark. “Next time I bring a friend. You’ll need more than two cocks to satisfy you now.”

Rahul made a broken sound behind her.

Paromita just smiled.

They stayed under the water until it began to cool, until skin pruned and the mirror was a solid wall of steam. When they stepped out, Paromita wrapped a towel around herself for exactly four seconds (long enough to watch both men’s eyes track the movement like starving dogs), then let it fall.

“I’m not covering this body again until the maid rings the bell,” she declared. “I want to feel the air on every bruise, every bite, every place you marked me.”

Samir dressed slowly (black shirt clinging to wet skin, jeans zipped over a cock that still looked dangerous). Before he left he cupped her face with both hands, kissed her deep and filthy, tongue fucking her mouth while Rahul watched from the doorway, fists clenched.

“You,” Samir said against her lips, “are the best client I’ve ever had. And the most expensive one I’ll never charge full price for again.”

He slipped his private card into her hand (thick cream stock, only a number and the words “Full Body Relief – 24/7”), then turned to Rahul.

“Take care of her, boy. Women like this come once in a lifetime.”

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Rahul stood naked in the middle of the wrecked bedroom, eyes red, cock soft and bruised, chest heaving. He looked eighteen going on a hundred.

“Boudi…” His voice cracked like thin ice. “What have we done?”

Paromita walked to him slowly, hips rolling, breasts swaying heavily, mangalsutra catching the light. Cum still glistened on the insides of her thighs; fresh droplets formed and fell with every step.

She cupped his face, kissed him soft and slow, tasting herself and Samir and dawn on his tongue.

“We didn’t do anything, baby,” she whispered. “I did. I chose this. And I’m choosing it again tonight. And tomorrow. And every day until your brother comes home and I have to pretend to be his good little wife again.”

Rahul’s knees buckled. He sank to the floor in front of her, arms wrapping around her thighs, face pressed to her belly just above the mangalsutra.

“I’m scared,” he whispered against her skin. “And I’ve never been happier.”

Paromita threaded fingers through his wet hair, held him there.

“Good,” she said. “Fear keeps you hard. Happiness keeps you obedient.”

She glanced at the clock (6:27 a.m.).

“Shower again,” she decided. “Alone this time. I need to wash the evidence out of my hair before Leela comes. You (go make coffee). Then you sit at the dining table and open your Physics book. When I come out wearing nothing but this mangalsutra and an apron, you will not speak until I allow it.”

Rahul nodded against her belly, lips brushing the gold pendant.

Paromita stepped away, walked to the bathroom, paused in the doorway.

“One more thing,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Tonight, when the maid leaves and the city goes quiet, you will tie me to this bed with my old sarees. You will edge me for three hours and not let me come until I’m begging in Bengali. Then you will call Samir and put him on speaker while you fuck my ass and he tells you exactly how to make me scream.”

Rahul’s cock twitched, already trying to rise again.

Paromita smiled (slow, filthy, radiant).

“The walk of shame is for women who regret what they did,” she said. “I’m not walking anywhere. I’m strutting.”

She disappeared into the bathroom. The shower started again.

Rahul stood alone in the wreckage of sheets and condoms and innocence, looked at the phone still blinking on the pillow, and smiled for the first time since the night began (small, terrified, utterly devoted).

Outside, Kolkata woke up.

Inside Flat 4B, Park Circus, Mrs Paromita Chatterjee began the first day of the rest of her new life.

And the mangalsutra (soaked, stretched, cum-stained) swung gently between her bare breasts like a medal she had finally earned.

[RajV]

WONDERFUL

[cutekomal]

The conclusion: 

I am Paromita Chatterjee.  
Thirty-two years old.  
And tonight, while my husband sleeps 3,800 kilometres away in a Dubai hotel, I am sitting naked on the edge of my marital bed with my dewar’s cum still leaking out of me, and I am going to tell you (only you) exactly how I fell, step by shameful step, until there was no shame left at all.

Let me start from the night I stopped pretending.

1. The First Touch – 14th July  
It was a Wednesday. The power had gone at 11:12 p.m. and the inverter had died ten minutes later. The flat was black and airless. I was sweating through my cotton nightie, lying on top of the sheet, when Rahul knocked once and slipped inside without waiting for permission.

“Boudi, I can’t sleep,” he whispered.  
I should have sent him away.  
Instead I said, “Come here.”

He lay beside me like a child, but he was not a child. I felt the heat of his body through the thin mattress, the way his breathing hitched when my breast brushed his arm by accident. I told myself I was comforting him.

Then his hand found my waist in the dark.

I froze.  
He froze.  
Neither of us moved away.

His palm was burning through the cotton. I felt every ridge of his fingers, every tremor. Slowly, so slowly I could have stopped him a hundred times, his hand slid upward until it cupped my breast. My nipple stiffened instantly against his palm, traitorous, aching.

I should have slapped him.  
Instead I turned toward him and let the nightie ride up to my hips.

That was the first taboo I broke: I let my dewar touch my naked breast while my mangalsutra lay between us like a sleeping witness.

I came that night with his mouth on my nipple and my own fingers between my legs, biting the pillow so hard I tasted blood. When I opened my eyes he was crying silently, tears on his cheeks, cock jerking against my thigh as he spilled untouched.

I kissed his tears and tasted salt and ruin.

2. The First Taste – 21st July  
A week later. Rain hammering the window like punishment.

I called him into my room after dinner. I was wearing the red silk nightie Sahil had gifted me on our last Karva Chauth (the one I had never dared wear in front of anyone else). It clung to every curve, ended high on my thighs, left my back completely bare.

I sat him on the bed and knelt between his knees.

“Take it out,” I said.

His hands shook so badly he couldn’t manage the drawstring. I did it for him.

His cock sprang free (smaller than Sahil’s, thinner, but so hard it looked painful, the head flushed dark, already wet). The smell hit me first: young, sharp, unmistakable. I felt my mouth water the way it does before biting into a ripe mango.

I told myself I would only look.  
Then I leaned forward and licked the bead of fluid from the slit.

The taste exploded (salt and something faintly sweet, like unripe guava). Rahul made a broken sound and his hips jerked so hard he almost hit the back of my throat. I pulled back, frightened and exhilarated.

That was the second taboo: I tasted my dewar’s cum while wearing the nightie my husband bought to celebrate our marriage.

3. The First Penetration – 4th August  
I remember the exact date because it was the night India won the Test match and the whole building was shouting.

I had bathed and oiled myself (coconut oil, the kind Ma uses for my hair, now slick between my breasts, over my belly, down to the place that had started aching the moment Rahul looked at me across the dinner table).

I called him in, closed the door, locked it.

I was completely naked except for the mangalsutra and the thin gold chain around my waist that Sahil had tied on our wedding night.

I lay back on Sahil’s side of the bed, opened my legs, and said the words I can never take back:

“Come inside your boudi, Rahul. Come home.”

He cried when he pushed in (tears dripping onto my breasts as he breached me). I felt every inch (the stretch, the burn, the impossible heat). When he bottomed out I wrapped my legs around his waist and felt the mangalsutra dig into my skin where his chest pressed against mine.

That was the third and greatest taboo: I took my dewar into the body that belongs, by every law of God and man, to his elder brother.

I came three times that night, clawing at his back, biting his shoulder to muffle screams, whispering filth in Bengali I didn’t know I knew. When he finally spilled inside me (hot, thin pulses that felt endless), I held him there and clenched around him until he sobbed.

4. The First Raw Claiming – 19th August  
We had graduated to daily. Sometimes twice. Sometimes in the bathroom while the pressure cooker whistled in the kitchen.

This night I wanted something different.

I made him lie still while I rode him slow (so slow the friction was torture). I leaned forward until the mangalsutra dangled over his lips.

“Suck it,” I ordered.

He took the gold pendant into his mouth like communion.

I ground down hard and said, “From tonight, every time you see me wearing this in front of the family, you will remember your cock was inside me while you sucked your dada’s marriage symbol.”

He came instantly, hips bucking, flooding me so hard I felt it hit my cervix.

That was the fourth taboo: I turned the sacred thread of my marriage into a leash for my dewar’s lust.

5. The First Anal – 30th August  
I prepared for three days (oiling, stretching myself with fingers while he watched, tears in his eyes because I wouldn’t let him touch).

When I finally knelt on the bed and said, “Take your boudi’s last virginity,” he wept openly.

The stretch was white-hot agony that melted into something darker. When he was fully seated I reached back, spread my cheeks wider, and made him look.

“See how you fit? See how your boudi’s body was made for you?”

He came without moving, just from the sight and the forbidden heat.

That was the fifth taboo: I gave my dewar the hole no one (not even my husband) had ever claimed.

6. The First Time I Made Him Beg – 12th September  
I tied him to the chair with my old sarees (the red one from my wedding reception) and masturbated in front of him for two hours, bringing myself to the edge again and again, letting him watch but never touch.

I dripped onto the floor while he sobbed and begged, cock purple and weeping.

When I finally straddled him and sank down, he came in three thrusts, apologising with every spurt.

That was the sixth taboo: I turned my little brother into my supplicant.

7. The First Time I Called Him “Son” While He Was Inside Me – 27th September  
I don’t know where the word came from.

He was fucking me from behind, slow and deep, my forehead pressed to the mattress, mangalsutra swinging like a pendulum.

I felt him swell (always does when he’s close) and the word slipped out on a broken moan:

“Give Maa your seed, Rahul. Fill your Maa.”

He screamed (actually screamed) and came so hard his entire body shook for minutes afterward.

That was the seventh and blackest taboo: I blurred the line between mother and lover until neither of us knew where one ended and the other began.

8. The First Time I Let Him Film – 8th October  
I was on my knees, mouth stretched around him, tears running from the depth, when I pulled off and said, “Record it. I want to watch myself swallow my dewar later.”

The phone shook in his hand the entire time.

That was the eighth taboo: I made our sin permanent.

9. The First Time I Came Just From His Tears – 19th October  
He was crying because I had edged him for three hours and refused to let him inside me.

I straddled his face instead, ground against his mouth until I came, drinking his tears as they mixed with my wetness.

That was the ninth taboo: I learned to orgasm from his pain.

10. The Present – 3rd December  
Tonight, six months after the first touch, I sit with his cum drying on my thighs and I feel… peaceful.

I have broken every rule a boudi must obey.

I have taken my dewar in every hole, in every room, on every surface that belongs to his brother.

I have let him mark me where the mangalsutra lies.

I have whispered “Maa” and “Boudi” and “Rand” in the same breath while he fucked me senseless.

I have tasted him, swallowed him, begged him, owned him.

And I have never once (not for a single second) wished to go back.

Rahul is asleep now, curled against my breast like the child he no longer is, lips still swollen from kissing me where no brother should ever kiss.

I stroke his hair and feel the last taboo settle into place (quiet, final, complete):

I am in love with my dewar.

Not the safe, sisterly love I started with.

A love that is wet and filthy and possessive and tender all at once.

A love that has rewritten every cell in my body.

I am Paromita Chatterjee.

I was a good woman.

Now I am Rahul’s.

And tomorrow, when I tie rakhi on his wrist again in front of the family photographs, I will smile the same modest smile, and only he will know that the thread is soaked with the memory of where his cock was an hour before.

That is the final taboo:

I no longer recognise the woman I used to be.

And I have never been happier to be lost.

[cutekomal]

I am Rahul Chatterjee.  
Eighteen years, three months, and twelve days old.  
Younger son of the Chatterjee family of Burdwan, science student, topper in every mock test this term, and right now, at 4:47 a.m., I am lying on my boudi’s bed with the taste of her pussy still on my tongue and the smell of my own cum drying on the sheets where I spilled inside her less than an hour ago.

This is my confession.  
My surrender.  
My love letter to the woman who destroyed me and rebuilt me into something that only exists for her.

Let me take you back to the beginning, when I was still pretending to be innocent.

1. The Arrival – 2nd May  
I stepped off the Howrah–Dhanbad Express smelling of coal smoke and village dust, carrying one steel suitcase and the weight of every hope my parents had pinned on me. Boudi was waiting on platform 17 in a cream cotton saree, pallu slipping just enough to show the curve of her waist when she hugged me. She smelled of Chandan attar and home-cooked mishti doi. I was fifteen the last time I hugged her properly; now I was taller than her and my chest pressed against her breasts and I felt something twist low in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

That night she tied a rakhi on my wrist (red and gold thread, the same as every year), but her fingers lingered on my pulse and her eyes looked into mine a second longer than they ever had before. I told myself it was nothing.  
I jerked off in the bathroom ten minutes later thinking of the way her blouse stretched when she leaned over to serve me luchi.

That was the first time I felt shame.

2. The Phone – 18th May  
Boudi bought me the phone herself (latest model, silver back, camera that made everything look expensive). She said, “Now you won’t feel left out.”  
I felt like a king.

Within a week I had discovered porn.  
Within two weeks I had discovered that I could come three times in one night just looking at women who looked nothing like the girls in my village and everything like the woman sleeping in the next room.

I started staying up until 3 a.m., headphones in, hand moving under the blanket, biting my pillow so she wouldn’t hear. I told myself it was normal. Every boy did it.  
I lied.

3. The First Dream – 30th May  
I dreamed she came into my room wearing only the mangalsutra and the red bangles from her wedding. She climbed onto my bed, straddled my chest, and fed me her breast while whispering, “Drink, Rahul. Drink from your boudi.”

I woke up coming so hard my vision went black at the edges, cum soaking through my pyjamas and onto the sheet. I had to wash everything before she woke up.

That was the first time I cried after coming.

4. The First Real Touch – 14th July  
The night the power failed.  
I knocked on her door because I couldn’t sleep, because the heat was unbearable, because I was lying to myself.

She let me in.  
She let me lie beside her.  
She let my hand find her waist in the dark.

When my palm slid up and cupped her breast (soft, heavy, the nipple stiffening instantly against my skin), I felt her inhale sharply. I waited for the slap, the scream, the end of everything.

Instead she turned toward me and the nightie rode up and I felt the bare skin of her thigh against mine.

I touched her naked breast for the first time that night.  
I felt the weight of it, the velvet texture, the way her nipple beaded between my fingers like it had been waiting years for me. She was shaking. I was shaking harder.

When she came with her own fingers between her legs and my mouth on her nipple through the cotton, I came in my pyjamas without being touched, the hottest, most humiliating orgasm of my life.

I cried into her neck afterwards and she kissed my tears and whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”

That was the night I stopped being her little brother and started being her secret.

5. The First Taste of Her – 21st July  
The night of the storm.

She called me into her room wearing the red silk nightie. I had never seen it before. It clung to her like liquid sin, ended high on her thighs, left her back completely bare. I could see the shadow between her legs when she moved.

She knelt between my knees and said, “Take it out.”

I couldn’t move.  
She did it for me.

When her tongue touched the head of my cock I saw stars. The taste of her mouth (warm, wet, slightly sweet from the mishti she had eaten) was better than any fantasy. When she took me fully in, her lips stretched around me, throat working, I lasted exactly seven seconds before I came down her throat with a sound I didn’t recognise as human.

She swallowed every drop, looked up at me with those dark eyes, and said, “Good boy.”

I fell to my knees and worshipped her that night (mouth clumsy, desperate, licking and sucking like a starving puppy until she came against my tongue, fingers tangled in my hair, calling me “baby” and “Rahul” and “my good boy”).

That was the night I learned the taste of heaven and hell in the same breath.

6. The First Time Inside Her – 4th August  
I remember every second.

She had oiled herself (coconut oil, the smell of our childhood). She lay on Dada’s side of the bed, naked except for the mangalsutra and the thin gold chain around her waist that only the husband is supposed to touch.

She opened her legs and said, “Come inside your boudi, Rahul. Come home.”

I cried when I pushed in.  
The heat, the tightness, the impossible wetness (she was so ready for me it felt like she had been waiting years). When I bottomed out she wrapped her legs around me and I felt the mangalsutra dig into my chest where our hearts were hammering against each other.

I lasted maybe ten thrusts before I came, apologising with every spurt, tears mixing with sweat on her breasts.

She held me inside her and clenched until I was hard again, then rode me slow and filthy, whispering, “This is yours now, Rahul. This body is yours.”

That was the night I stopped belonging to myself.

7. The First Raw Creampie – 19th August  
She made me lie still while she rode me, the mangalsutra dangling over my lips.

“Suck it,” she ordered.

I took the gold pendant into my mouth and tasted metal and her sweat and the faint trace of Dada’s cologne that still clung to it from years ago.

She ground down and said, “Every time you see me wearing this in front of Ma-Baba, you will remember your cock was inside me while you sucked your dada’s marriage symbol.”

I came so hard I saw white, flooding her with everything I had, feeling her clench and milk me until I was sobbing.

That was the night the mangalsutra stopped being sacred and started being hers (and therefore mine).

8. The First Anal – 30th August  
She prepared for days. I watched, aching, as she stretched herself with oiled fingers, tears in her eyes from the burn but never telling me to stop looking.

When she finally knelt and said, “Take your boudi’s last virginity,” I entered her like I was entering a temple I had no right to defile.

The heat was different (tighter, darker, more forbidden). When I was fully inside she reached back and spread herself wider and made me look.

“See how you fit? See how your boudi’s ass was made for her dewar?”

I came without moving, just from the sight and the knowledge that I was the first (and only) man to ever have her there.

9. The First Time She Called Me “Son” – 27th September  
She was on her hands and knees, I was behind her, slow and deep.

The word slipped out of her like a prayer and a curse:

“Give Maa your seed, Rahul.”

I lost my mind.

I came screaming, hips snapping, flooding her with everything I had and more, tears streaming because the wrongness and the rightness were the same thing.

From that night on, sometimes she is Boudi, sometimes Maa, sometimes both in the same breath, and every time it destroys me and rebuilds me stronger.

10. The First Time I Filmed – 8th October  
She was on her knees, mouth stretched around me, tears running from the depth.

“Record it,” she said, pulling off just long enough to speak. “I want to watch myself swallow my dewar later.”

My hands shook so badly the video is blurry in places, but you can still hear everything (the wet sounds, her moans, my broken sobbing when I came down her throat).

I watch it every night when she’s asleep, coming again to the sight of the woman who raised me swallowing her little brother like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

11. The Present – Six Months Later  
Tonight she let Samir fuck her while I watched, then made me clean them both with my tongue, then rode us together until the sun came up.

I am lying with my head on her breast, listening to her heartbeat, feeling the mangalsutra against my cheek, and I know three things with absolute certainty:

1. I will never love anyone the way I love her.  
2. I will never be free of her.  
3. I don’t want to be.

She strokes my hair and whispers, “Sleep, baby. Tomorrow you have a test. If you score ninety-five or above, I’ll let you come inside Maa’s ass before college.”

I fall asleep with her nipple in my mouth and her fingers in my hair, dreaming of the day Dada comes home and I have to pretend to be the good little brother again.

I am Rahul Chatterjee.

I was a good boy.

Now I belong to my boudi (body, soul, every drop of cum I will ever produce).

And I have never been happier to be ruined.