Yesterday, 12:43 AM
Manoj let go of her hair for a second, grabbing the framed photo with a sneer. He held it up, tilting it so our faces—Dad’s warm eyes, my gap-toothed smile, Mom’s soft glow—stared back at her.
Her lips were still wrapped around his cock, her cheeks hollowed, her gags quieter but her body shaking.
A still a kid, I didn't understand what was going on. Manoj earlier told me that he was going to give my mom a massage.
But what was going on in that room was not massage. Even as a kid, I knew what massage was.
But why was my mom sucking the penis of another man? Was this really massage?
He pushed the frame closer, his voice low and cruel.
Manoj - “Come on, you fucking slut. Spit on this picture, bitch. Show me how you disrespect your husband, your kid, with my cock in your mouth.”
Mom - “Mmm—no, Manoj, I won’t. It’s too much—my family’s everything. I can’t hurt them, not even for you.”
Manoj - “Don’t fucking lie to me, Rekha. You nodded, you whore. Spit on it now, or I’ll make you choke till you’re blue. Do it!”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I’m begging. I can’t do that to them. My heart’s with my son, my husband. Don’t force me.”
Her eyes locked on the photo, and I saw her hesitate, her tears pooling. She shook her head slightly, her mouth full, her defiance a quiet flame.
During that time as a kid, I wondered why Manoj was talking crudely to my mom.
Was this the type of massage he was talking about?
But Manoj’s grip tightened on the frame, his other hand back in her hair, shoving her down harder.
Manoj - “You’re pissing me off, Rekha. Spit on that fucking photo, or I’ll ram my cock so deep you’ll beg for mercy. Do it, slut!”
Mom - “Mmm—I can’t, but… oh, God, I just want this over. I’m not yours, Manoj. I’m theirs.”
Manoj - “Rekha. Spit now, or I’ll make you regret it. Your family’s nothing—prove it!”
Mom - “No, they’re everything. I… I’ll do it to stop this, but my love stays pure. Forgive me, Sanjay, Amit, my husband.”
Her sob was trapped, her body trembling. Then, her lips parted just enough, and a dribble of spit hit the glass, smearing across Dad’s face, then mine.
Can you believe it? My mom spitting Manoj's dirty cock's filth on our family photo.
It was a small, wet mark, but it felt like a dagger. My heart stopped—Mom had spat on us, on our family, on her marriage.
The spit glistened, disrespectful, a stain on everything I believed about her. I wanted to scream, to tell her I knew she didn’t mean it, but I was frozen, my eyes burning.
Manoj - “Fuck yeah, Rekha. You spat on them like a nasty bitch. Look at that mess—your family’s trash now, huh?”
Mom - “No, Manoj. They’re still my world. I only did it to end this. You can’t touch my love for them.”
Manoj - “Love? You’re a lying slut. That spit says you’re mine. You desecrated them for my cock.”
Mom - “I’m not yours, Manoj. My heart’s with my husband, my son, my God. You forced this, but I’m still me.”
Manoj - “Keep telling yourself that, bitch. Your mouth’s wet with my dick, and you spat on your family. You’re fucked.”
Mom - “I’m not fucked, Manoj. You can’t break my faith, my love. I did it to survive, not because I wanted to.”
Her voice was soft, innocent, a prayer against his venom. The photo sat there, smeared, and I couldn’t look away from it, from the spit that felt like a betrayal.
As a kid, I kept asking myself what the hell did the words "fuck", "slut", "cock", "bitch" & "pussy" mean.
But Mom’s eyes were steady, even through her tears—she was fighting, holding onto us, and I was too young to see it clearly.
She sagged slightly, a flicker of relief crossing her face, like she thought this might stop the blowjob.
Her gags had softened, her body less tense, but the guilt in her eyes was heavy. She didn’t know I was watching, didn’t know how that spit made me question her, made my love for her twist with confusion.
Manoj tossed the frame back on the desk, careless, like it was nothing. He yanked her off his cock, a wet pop cutting the air as she gasped, her lips swollen, her cheeks streaked.
She looked up at him, wary, her hands clutching the bed. He sprawled back, stroking his dick, his eyes glinting with a darker hunger.
Manoj - “Enough of your mouth, Rekha. Get up here and ride my cock. I want that pussy wrapped around me, slut.”
Mom - “No, Manoj, please, I can’t. It’s a sin, a betrayal of my husband, my son. I’m begging you, stop this.”
Manoj - “Don’t fucking beg, Rekha. Your pussy’s dripping—you want my dick. Climb on, or I’ll make you.”
Mom - “I don’t want it, Manoj. My body’s not me—it’s my faith, my family that matter. Please, no more.”
Manoj - “Your faith? Fuck that. You spat on your family, whore. Riding my cock’s nothing after that.”
Mom - “I didn’t mean it, Manoj. I only did it to end your cruelty. I’m still my husband’s, my son’s.”
Her voice shook, innocent and desperate. She glanced at the photo, the spit still wet, and her face crumpled. I could see her mind turning—she’d crossed a line, even if forced.
I wondered why he told my mom to ride him....what did he actually mean?
But I began to understand this was not massage.
Her pussy was wet, dripping down her thighs, and I didn’t understand it then, but she was thirsty, not for him but for something her body craved, something her faith told her to bury.
Manoj - “Look at that photo, Rekha. You already fucked them over. Your cunt’s begging for my cock—ride me.”
Mom - “No, Manoj. That photo’s my heart. I didn’t fuck them—I love them. I can’t do this.”
Manoj - “Bullshit, slut. You’re wet as hell. You’ve sinned already—spitting on your kid and husband. Ride my dick, or I’ll force it in.”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I’m scared. My body’s not my heart. I’m still theirs, not yours.”
Manoj - “Your heart’s bullshit, Rekha. Your pussy’s honest—it’s screaming for me. Get on my cock now.”
Mom - “I see the photo, Manoj. My family—they’re still mine. I can’t betray them more than I have.”
Her eyes lingered on the frame, the spit a silent wound. She knew Manoj was right in one cruel way—she’d been pushed so far, her body reacting against her will.
Her innocence was in her trembling pleas, but her thirst was real, a quiet ache she despised herself for. She sighed, broken, her hands shaking.
Then, to my horror, she moved. She reached for the photo, gentle, like she was saying sorry.
She picked it up, cradling it, then set it face-down on the desk, away from Manoj’s gaze, away from this sin.
My jaw dropped—she was shielding us, maybe, but she was climbing onto the bed, her knees trembling as she straddled him.
Her hand shook as she grabbed his cock, stroking it, her face tight with disgust but her body moving like it had its own will. Her big boobs swayed, heavy, her nipples hard despite her shame.
I didn't understand why my mom was holding another man's thing that he uses to urinate.
Her fat ass, plump and round, jiggled as she positioned herself, a sight that seared into my mind, confusing my love for her with something raw.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, look at you. Stroking my cock like a nasty slut. Your tits are bouncing, that fat ass begging to me.”
Mom - “No, Manoj. I’m not that woman. I’m doing this to stop you, to protect what’s left of me.”
Manoj - “Protect? You’re a whore, Rekha. Look at those boobs, that ass—built to take my dick. Keep stroking.”
Mom - “I hate this, Manoj. My heart’s with my family. I’m not yours, no matter what you say.”
Manoj - “Keep lying, bitch. Your hand’s on my cock, your pussy’s wet. You’re gonna fuck me good.”
Mom - “I’m not lying, Manoj. I’m a mother, a wife. This is wrong—I don’t want it.”
Her voice was soft, innocent, but her hand moved, reluctant and slow. She felt dirty—I saw it in her eyes, clouded with shame.
As a kid, even though I didn't understand what was going on, I knew my mom was in total shame.
Her boobs were massive, spilling over, and her ass was so fat it seemed to dominate the space, each curve a betrayal she couldn’t control.
![[Image: images.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/nzpb9tM3/images.jpg)
I was shocked, my heart breaking, but I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop hoping she’d fight.
Manoj - “Ride me, Rekha. Get that pussy on my cock. Your tits, your ass—ooh woman, you’re made for this.”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I can’t. I’m scared—it’s too much. My family’s still in my heart. I can't betray my husband"
Manoj - “Fuck your heart, slut. Slide my dick in your cunt. You’re dripping—do it now.”
Mom - “I don’t want to, Manoj. I’m theirs, not yours. Please, don’t make me feel this.”
Her plea was a whisper, but she shifted, guiding his cock toward her pussy. Her face was fear and disgust, but her body was wet, glistening.
She was thirsty, I learned later, not for him but for something her faith couldn’t silence.
The tip brushed her pussy lips, and she froze, her breath catching.
My innocent eyes were being entertained by something unholy but I didn't know.
Manoj - “Don’t stop, Rekha. Push that pussy down. Your cunt’s tight—gonna feel so good on my cock.”
Mom - “It won’t fit, Manoj. It’s too big—it hurts already. I can’t do this, it’s wrong.”
Manoj - “Too big? You’ll make it fit, slut. I don’t care if it hurts—slide my dick in now.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—it’s choking me just thinking about it. I’m not that woman. Please, stop.”
![[Image: images-1.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/tCfKt6YZ/images-1.jpg)
Her voice cracked, but Manoj grabbed her hip, pulling her down. The struggle was slow, painful. Her pussy lips parted, stretching around the tip, and she gasped, her body tensing.
She tried to lift up, to escape, but his grip held her. Her thighs shook, her fat ass quivering as she fought.
The tip pressed harder, her wetness easing it despite her resistance. Her pussy clenched, but Manoj pushed up, and she whimpered, her hands on his chest for balance.
Half of his dick finally got into her tight pussy.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, take it. Your pussy’s opening up—keep going, you filthy bitch.”
Mom - “It hurts, Manoj! It’s too much—I can’t. I’m not yours, I’m my family’s.”
Manoj - “Keep whining, slut. Your cunt’s wet for me. Push down—let my cock fill you.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—I hate this. It’s wrong, it’s a sin. God forgive me, please.”
Her boobs bounced with her movements, her nipples tight, her ass jiggling with every shift.
The tip was deep inside, her face twisted with pain. She shook her head, tears streaming, but Manoj’s hand guided her, relentless.
Her pussy stretched, agonizingly slow, and I watched, frozen, as Mom lost her fight, inch by inch.
Manoj - “That’s it, Rekha. My cock’s in your pussy now. Scream all you want—you’re mine.”
Mom - “Aaaahhh I’m not yours! It hurts—it’s tearing me. I’m my husband’s, my son’s—always!”
Her scream ripped through the room, raw and desperate, as the tip slipped fully inside, her pussy stretched around it. She froze, shuddering, her face crumpling with shame and pain.
I was shocked—Mom, my holy mom, screaming, violated, her pussy wet and betraying her.
I asked myself what type of massage makes women scream like this.
I thought she’d become someone else, but I was starting to see she was thirsty—not for Manoj, but for something her body demanded, something he twisted into his cruelty.
I knew this was not massage, it was something wrong.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, you’re tight. Keep going, slut—ride my cock like the whore you are.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—I hate you. My heart’s pure, even if you force my body. Forgive me, God.”
Her sob was quiet, but her body stayed, the tip inside, a line she couldn’t uncross. I watched, my world shattering, but her eyes were still Mom’s—innocent, fighting, even as Manoj tried to break her.
To be continued....
Give me your thoughts guys.....
Her lips were still wrapped around his cock, her cheeks hollowed, her gags quieter but her body shaking.
A still a kid, I didn't understand what was going on. Manoj earlier told me that he was going to give my mom a massage.
But what was going on in that room was not massage. Even as a kid, I knew what massage was.
But why was my mom sucking the penis of another man? Was this really massage?
He pushed the frame closer, his voice low and cruel.
Manoj - “Come on, you fucking slut. Spit on this picture, bitch. Show me how you disrespect your husband, your kid, with my cock in your mouth.”
Mom - “Mmm—no, Manoj, I won’t. It’s too much—my family’s everything. I can’t hurt them, not even for you.”
Manoj - “Don’t fucking lie to me, Rekha. You nodded, you whore. Spit on it now, or I’ll make you choke till you’re blue. Do it!”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I’m begging. I can’t do that to them. My heart’s with my son, my husband. Don’t force me.”
Her eyes locked on the photo, and I saw her hesitate, her tears pooling. She shook her head slightly, her mouth full, her defiance a quiet flame.
During that time as a kid, I wondered why Manoj was talking crudely to my mom.
Was this the type of massage he was talking about?
But Manoj’s grip tightened on the frame, his other hand back in her hair, shoving her down harder.
Manoj - “You’re pissing me off, Rekha. Spit on that fucking photo, or I’ll ram my cock so deep you’ll beg for mercy. Do it, slut!”
Mom - “Mmm—I can’t, but… oh, God, I just want this over. I’m not yours, Manoj. I’m theirs.”
Manoj - “Rekha. Spit now, or I’ll make you regret it. Your family’s nothing—prove it!”
Mom - “No, they’re everything. I… I’ll do it to stop this, but my love stays pure. Forgive me, Sanjay, Amit, my husband.”
Her sob was trapped, her body trembling. Then, her lips parted just enough, and a dribble of spit hit the glass, smearing across Dad’s face, then mine.
Can you believe it? My mom spitting Manoj's dirty cock's filth on our family photo.
It was a small, wet mark, but it felt like a dagger. My heart stopped—Mom had spat on us, on our family, on her marriage.
The spit glistened, disrespectful, a stain on everything I believed about her. I wanted to scream, to tell her I knew she didn’t mean it, but I was frozen, my eyes burning.
Manoj - “Fuck yeah, Rekha. You spat on them like a nasty bitch. Look at that mess—your family’s trash now, huh?”
Mom - “No, Manoj. They’re still my world. I only did it to end this. You can’t touch my love for them.”
Manoj - “Love? You’re a lying slut. That spit says you’re mine. You desecrated them for my cock.”
Mom - “I’m not yours, Manoj. My heart’s with my husband, my son, my God. You forced this, but I’m still me.”
Manoj - “Keep telling yourself that, bitch. Your mouth’s wet with my dick, and you spat on your family. You’re fucked.”
Mom - “I’m not fucked, Manoj. You can’t break my faith, my love. I did it to survive, not because I wanted to.”
Her voice was soft, innocent, a prayer against his venom. The photo sat there, smeared, and I couldn’t look away from it, from the spit that felt like a betrayal.
As a kid, I kept asking myself what the hell did the words "fuck", "slut", "cock", "bitch" & "pussy" mean.
But Mom’s eyes were steady, even through her tears—she was fighting, holding onto us, and I was too young to see it clearly.
She sagged slightly, a flicker of relief crossing her face, like she thought this might stop the blowjob.
Her gags had softened, her body less tense, but the guilt in her eyes was heavy. She didn’t know I was watching, didn’t know how that spit made me question her, made my love for her twist with confusion.
Manoj tossed the frame back on the desk, careless, like it was nothing. He yanked her off his cock, a wet pop cutting the air as she gasped, her lips swollen, her cheeks streaked.
She looked up at him, wary, her hands clutching the bed. He sprawled back, stroking his dick, his eyes glinting with a darker hunger.
Manoj - “Enough of your mouth, Rekha. Get up here and ride my cock. I want that pussy wrapped around me, slut.”
Mom - “No, Manoj, please, I can’t. It’s a sin, a betrayal of my husband, my son. I’m begging you, stop this.”
Manoj - “Don’t fucking beg, Rekha. Your pussy’s dripping—you want my dick. Climb on, or I’ll make you.”
Mom - “I don’t want it, Manoj. My body’s not me—it’s my faith, my family that matter. Please, no more.”
Manoj - “Your faith? Fuck that. You spat on your family, whore. Riding my cock’s nothing after that.”
Mom - “I didn’t mean it, Manoj. I only did it to end your cruelty. I’m still my husband’s, my son’s.”
Her voice shook, innocent and desperate. She glanced at the photo, the spit still wet, and her face crumpled. I could see her mind turning—she’d crossed a line, even if forced.
I wondered why he told my mom to ride him....what did he actually mean?
But I began to understand this was not massage.
Her pussy was wet, dripping down her thighs, and I didn’t understand it then, but she was thirsty, not for him but for something her body craved, something her faith told her to bury.
Manoj - “Look at that photo, Rekha. You already fucked them over. Your cunt’s begging for my cock—ride me.”
Mom - “No, Manoj. That photo’s my heart. I didn’t fuck them—I love them. I can’t do this.”
Manoj - “Bullshit, slut. You’re wet as hell. You’ve sinned already—spitting on your kid and husband. Ride my dick, or I’ll force it in.”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I’m scared. My body’s not my heart. I’m still theirs, not yours.”
Manoj - “Your heart’s bullshit, Rekha. Your pussy’s honest—it’s screaming for me. Get on my cock now.”
Mom - “I see the photo, Manoj. My family—they’re still mine. I can’t betray them more than I have.”
Her eyes lingered on the frame, the spit a silent wound. She knew Manoj was right in one cruel way—she’d been pushed so far, her body reacting against her will.
Her innocence was in her trembling pleas, but her thirst was real, a quiet ache she despised herself for. She sighed, broken, her hands shaking.
Then, to my horror, she moved. She reached for the photo, gentle, like she was saying sorry.
She picked it up, cradling it, then set it face-down on the desk, away from Manoj’s gaze, away from this sin.
My jaw dropped—she was shielding us, maybe, but she was climbing onto the bed, her knees trembling as she straddled him.
Her hand shook as she grabbed his cock, stroking it, her face tight with disgust but her body moving like it had its own will. Her big boobs swayed, heavy, her nipples hard despite her shame.
I didn't understand why my mom was holding another man's thing that he uses to urinate.
Her fat ass, plump and round, jiggled as she positioned herself, a sight that seared into my mind, confusing my love for her with something raw.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, look at you. Stroking my cock like a nasty slut. Your tits are bouncing, that fat ass begging to me.”
Mom - “No, Manoj. I’m not that woman. I’m doing this to stop you, to protect what’s left of me.”
Manoj - “Protect? You’re a whore, Rekha. Look at those boobs, that ass—built to take my dick. Keep stroking.”
Mom - “I hate this, Manoj. My heart’s with my family. I’m not yours, no matter what you say.”
Manoj - “Keep lying, bitch. Your hand’s on my cock, your pussy’s wet. You’re gonna fuck me good.”
Mom - “I’m not lying, Manoj. I’m a mother, a wife. This is wrong—I don’t want it.”
Her voice was soft, innocent, but her hand moved, reluctant and slow. She felt dirty—I saw it in her eyes, clouded with shame.
As a kid, even though I didn't understand what was going on, I knew my mom was in total shame.
Her boobs were massive, spilling over, and her ass was so fat it seemed to dominate the space, each curve a betrayal she couldn’t control.
I was shocked, my heart breaking, but I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop hoping she’d fight.
Manoj - “Ride me, Rekha. Get that pussy on my cock. Your tits, your ass—ooh woman, you’re made for this.”
Mom - “Please, Manoj, I can’t. I’m scared—it’s too much. My family’s still in my heart. I can't betray my husband"
Manoj - “Fuck your heart, slut. Slide my dick in your cunt. You’re dripping—do it now.”
Mom - “I don’t want to, Manoj. I’m theirs, not yours. Please, don’t make me feel this.”
Her plea was a whisper, but she shifted, guiding his cock toward her pussy. Her face was fear and disgust, but her body was wet, glistening.
She was thirsty, I learned later, not for him but for something her faith couldn’t silence.
The tip brushed her pussy lips, and she froze, her breath catching.
My innocent eyes were being entertained by something unholy but I didn't know.
Manoj - “Don’t stop, Rekha. Push that pussy down. Your cunt’s tight—gonna feel so good on my cock.”
Mom - “It won’t fit, Manoj. It’s too big—it hurts already. I can’t do this, it’s wrong.”
Manoj - “Too big? You’ll make it fit, slut. I don’t care if it hurts—slide my dick in now.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—it’s choking me just thinking about it. I’m not that woman. Please, stop.”
Her voice cracked, but Manoj grabbed her hip, pulling her down. The struggle was slow, painful. Her pussy lips parted, stretching around the tip, and she gasped, her body tensing.
She tried to lift up, to escape, but his grip held her. Her thighs shook, her fat ass quivering as she fought.
The tip pressed harder, her wetness easing it despite her resistance. Her pussy clenched, but Manoj pushed up, and she whimpered, her hands on his chest for balance.
Half of his dick finally got into her tight pussy.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, take it. Your pussy’s opening up—keep going, you filthy bitch.”
Mom - “It hurts, Manoj! It’s too much—I can’t. I’m not yours, I’m my family’s.”
Manoj - “Keep whining, slut. Your cunt’s wet for me. Push down—let my cock fill you.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—I hate this. It’s wrong, it’s a sin. God forgive me, please.”
Her boobs bounced with her movements, her nipples tight, her ass jiggling with every shift.
The tip was deep inside, her face twisted with pain. She shook her head, tears streaming, but Manoj’s hand guided her, relentless.
Her pussy stretched, agonizingly slow, and I watched, frozen, as Mom lost her fight, inch by inch.
Manoj - “That’s it, Rekha. My cock’s in your pussy now. Scream all you want—you’re mine.”
Mom - “Aaaahhh I’m not yours! It hurts—it’s tearing me. I’m my husband’s, my son’s—always!”
Her scream ripped through the room, raw and desperate, as the tip slipped fully inside, her pussy stretched around it. She froze, shuddering, her face crumpling with shame and pain.
I was shocked—Mom, my holy mom, screaming, violated, her pussy wet and betraying her.
I asked myself what type of massage makes women scream like this.
I thought she’d become someone else, but I was starting to see she was thirsty—not for Manoj, but for something her body demanded, something he twisted into his cruelty.
I knew this was not massage, it was something wrong.
Manoj - “Fuck, Rekha, you’re tight. Keep going, slut—ride my cock like the whore you are.”
Mom - “No, Manoj—I hate you. My heart’s pure, even if you force my body. Forgive me, God.”
Her sob was quiet, but her body stayed, the tip inside, a line she couldn’t uncross. I watched, my world shattering, but her eyes were still Mom’s—innocent, fighting, even as Manoj tried to break her.
To be continued....
Give me your thoughts guys.....
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)