31-08-2025, 08:27 PM
(This post was last modified: 31-08-2025, 08:54 PM by ashuezy. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The story continues with new characters. Based on feedback I will share more.
Saga 2 - Scene 1 - Baba ka powder
========================
A few days later, Dipa was lounging on the sofa, Tukun asleep in his cradle. She was wearing the yellow spaghetti strap tank top and shorts Sameer had bought for her. She was no longer ashamed of her body in her own home; she was beginning to revel in the freedom. Sameer was watching her, a familiar, hungry look in his eyes.
The doorbell rang. It was Ramla Aunty, but her usual cheerful demeanor was gone, replaced by a mask of deep worry.
Dipa: Ramla Masi? What’s wrong? You look so upset.
Ramla: Oh, madam! It is a terrible story. A tragedy in our slum.
Sameer: What kind of tragedy, Aunty?
Ramla: There are two brothers, Keshav and Murari. Very good boys. But Keshav… some enemy has put a curse on him. A terrible curse.
Dipa: A curse? What do you mean?
Ramla: He has lost his manhood, madam. Completely. The doctors can do nothing. He no longer eats. He no longer speaks. He just lies in his hut, waiting to die. His brother, Murari, is going mad with grief.
Dipa’s heart immediately went out to them. The familiar ache of pity began to bloom in her chest.
Sameer: That is truly horrible. A man without his manhood is… a ghost. Dipa, darling…
He looked at her, his eyes shining with a sudden, intense idea.
Sameer: Your noble work… the people in the slum, they talk about you like a goddess. They say your touch is healing.
Dipa: Sameer, what are you suggesting?
Sameer: Perhaps… perhaps you could visit this poor boy. Just to sit with him. To talk to him. Maybe your presence… your divine energy… could break this curse.
Ramla: Oh, Sameer Babu, do you really think so? That would be a miracle!
Dipa: But… what could I possibly do?
Sameer: Just be yourself, my love. A beautiful, kind-hearted woman. It is a man’s greatest medicine. Think of it, Dipa. You could save his life. It would be your greatest act of virtue yet.
That afternoon, Dipa went with Ramla to a part of the slum she hadn’t visited before. They arrived at a small, clean hut. Inside, a young man, Murari, greeted them with desperate, hopeful eyes. On a cot in the corner, another man, Keshav, lay still as a corpse, his face turned to the wall.
Murari: Madam, thank you for coming. You are our last hope.
Dipa: I don’t know what I can do, but I wanted to offer my support.
Murari: Your presence itself is a blessing. Please, sit. Let me offer you some prasad. I just came from the temple, praying for my brother.
Murari thought to himself, his heart pounding as he held out the cup. The stories are true. She comes if the suffering is great enough. But pity is not enough. We need more. The fakir sold me this powder… he said a few drops would make a man see heaven and a woman become a goddess. She will eat the prasad, a holy offering she cannot refuse. And then… then she won’t just be a kind woman. She will be whatever we need her to be. She will feel the power, and her own mind will command her to give us everything. Her milk, her body… her very soul. What a cruel trick;
He handed her the small, sweet, milky prasad in a clay cup. It seemed rude to refuse a religious offering. She eate it down quickly. It was surprisingly delicious.
Dipa: Your brother… has he been like this for long?
Murari: For two weeks. The light in his eyes is gone. The fakir said only the touch of a truly pure and generous woman, in human form, could awaken his soul. When Ramla Masi told me of you… I knew it was a sign from Gods.
As he spoke, the drab colors of the hut began to seem strangely vibrant. The light from the single bulb seemed to pulse gently. Dipa felt a warmth spread through her body, a sense of profound peace and connection to everything in the room.
Dipa: Ramla Masi, you can go now. Tukun will need you soon. Don't worry about me. I will stay here for a while.
Ramla: Okay, madam. As you wish.
Ramla left, closing the hut door behind her.
Dipa: Everything… is so… beautiful.
Murari: It is because you are here, madam. You bring the beauty with you.
She moved to the cot and sat beside the still figure. She reached out and placed her hand on Keshav’s shoulder.
Dipa: Keshav… can you hear me?
At her touch, he stirred. He turned slowly, his eyes finding hers. They were hollow, empty… but the sound of his voice was like a physical touch on her skin.
Keshav: Your… voice…
Dipa: You can speak!
Murari: It is a miracle! Madam, your power is working! Please, don’t stop!
Dipa felt a wave of dizzying power. She was feeling generous. She was healing him. The world around her was melting, swirling into patterns of light and sound. The only reality was her mission.
Dipa: Your sickness… it is because your body has forgotten pleasure. It has forgotten a woman’s touch.
She stood up, unpinning her sari with a fluid, graceful motion and letting the pallu fall. The patterns on the fabric seemed to dance and breathe. She unhooked her blouse, then her bra. Her breasts felt impossibly heavy, full of milk, the source of all life. They swung free, large and white and veined with blue, the nipples already hard and dark.
Murari gasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and pure, animal lust. Keshav, on the cot, pushed himself up onto one elbow, his dead eyes suddenly alight with a desperate fire.
Keshav: So… big…
Murari: Madam… they are… perfect.
Dipa: (smiling serenely) You need my milk. It is the nectar of life. It will cure you.
She leaned over Keshav, her nipple brushing his dry lips. He took it, his mouth surprisingly strong, latching on with a deep, hungry suckle. As he drank, she felt the energy flowing from her body into his. Milk was freely flowing from her nipples entering his mouth then onto his tongue and into his stomach. He was coming back to life. Murari was on his knees now, weeping with joy.
Murari: Your milk is bringing him back from the dead! Please, Memsahab, let me also drink from the sacred fountain! I need to share in this miracle!
Dipa: Of course, my child. There is enough for all who are suffering.
Murari scrambled to the other side of the cot, his face buried in her other breast. He latched on just as greedily as his brother. Now she had one at each breast, two hungry mouths drawing life from her. She felt like a tree, a river, a mountain—an eternal source.
Their hands came up to her breasts, squeezing and kneading the flesh to make the milk flow faster. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure through her drug-saturated body.
Keshav: (muffled) More… I feel the life returning… I feel like a man again…
Murari: It is so sweet, Memsahab! The sweetest thing I have ever tasted!
Dipa: Yes… drink, my children. Drink deep. Mere bachche aur piyo, bahut hai tum dono ke liye. My children, drink, there is plenty for both of you.
She caressed their heads, her fingers tangling in their hair, pressing their faces harder against her. She could feel the hard ridges of their erections pressing against her legs through their thin lungis. The drug in her system didn't register this as lust; it was a symptom of their recovery. Proof of her power. Her milk was not just feeding their bodies, it was restoring their manhood.
She smiled, a benevolent, holy smile, and reached down. Her hands found the hard bulges in their lungis. She squeezed them gently.
Dipa: You are becoming strong again. My power flows into you. The curse is broken.
Keshav: Your touch… your milk… I have never felt anything like this.
Murari: We want more, Memsahab. It is hard to drink like this. We are so weak.
Dipa: What do you need, my children? Tell your mother.
Murari: Please… if you could come on top of us… lie on the bed between us. Then we could drink properly. We could worship you as you deserve.
Dipa: Yes. Of course.
She stood and unfastened her sari, letting it pool on the floor. She stepped out of it, then her petticoat. She stood before them in just her panties, her huge, milk-slick breasts swaying. They stared, their mouths hanging open.
She lay down on the cot on her hands between them, her head propped on a pillow.
Dipa: Come, my children. It is time to finish your healing.
Keshav immediately took one nipple, his hands cupping the heavy globe. Murari took the other, his own hands mirroring his brother’s. They suckled with a renewed, frantic energy. She could feel their hard cocks pressing against her thighs, hot and insistent. She didn't mind. It was part of the ritual. Part of the cure.
She reached down again, away from their mouths, this time her hands finding the knots of their lungis. She untied them, letting the fabric fall away. Their erections sprang free, thick and hard and dark. She took one in each hand, stroking them.
Keshav: Your hands… they are magic…
Murari: Memsahab… you are making us whole again…
She felt like she was floating, a vessel of pure sensation and purpose. The sound of their wet mouths, the feeling of their hands on her breasts, the hard, pulsing weight of their cocks in her hands—it was all part of a single, perfect symphony of healing. They continued with their hands squeezing harder and harder, until she felt the last drops of milk leave her body. Her breasts were empty, soft, and exquisitely sensitive.
Their faces flushed, their eyes burning with a new kind of fire. They were no longer sick, cursed boys. They were men. Men she had created. Men she had healed.
And now, their healing required one final, sacred act.
To be continued..
Saga 2 - Scene 1 - Baba ka powder
========================
A few days later, Dipa was lounging on the sofa, Tukun asleep in his cradle. She was wearing the yellow spaghetti strap tank top and shorts Sameer had bought for her. She was no longer ashamed of her body in her own home; she was beginning to revel in the freedom. Sameer was watching her, a familiar, hungry look in his eyes.
The doorbell rang. It was Ramla Aunty, but her usual cheerful demeanor was gone, replaced by a mask of deep worry.
Dipa: Ramla Masi? What’s wrong? You look so upset.
Ramla: Oh, madam! It is a terrible story. A tragedy in our slum.
Sameer: What kind of tragedy, Aunty?
Ramla: There are two brothers, Keshav and Murari. Very good boys. But Keshav… some enemy has put a curse on him. A terrible curse.
Dipa: A curse? What do you mean?
Ramla: He has lost his manhood, madam. Completely. The doctors can do nothing. He no longer eats. He no longer speaks. He just lies in his hut, waiting to die. His brother, Murari, is going mad with grief.
Dipa’s heart immediately went out to them. The familiar ache of pity began to bloom in her chest.
Sameer: That is truly horrible. A man without his manhood is… a ghost. Dipa, darling…
He looked at her, his eyes shining with a sudden, intense idea.
Sameer: Your noble work… the people in the slum, they talk about you like a goddess. They say your touch is healing.
Dipa: Sameer, what are you suggesting?
Sameer: Perhaps… perhaps you could visit this poor boy. Just to sit with him. To talk to him. Maybe your presence… your divine energy… could break this curse.
Ramla: Oh, Sameer Babu, do you really think so? That would be a miracle!
Dipa: But… what could I possibly do?
Sameer: Just be yourself, my love. A beautiful, kind-hearted woman. It is a man’s greatest medicine. Think of it, Dipa. You could save his life. It would be your greatest act of virtue yet.
That afternoon, Dipa went with Ramla to a part of the slum she hadn’t visited before. They arrived at a small, clean hut. Inside, a young man, Murari, greeted them with desperate, hopeful eyes. On a cot in the corner, another man, Keshav, lay still as a corpse, his face turned to the wall.
Murari: Madam, thank you for coming. You are our last hope.
Dipa: I don’t know what I can do, but I wanted to offer my support.
Murari: Your presence itself is a blessing. Please, sit. Let me offer you some prasad. I just came from the temple, praying for my brother.
Murari thought to himself, his heart pounding as he held out the cup. The stories are true. She comes if the suffering is great enough. But pity is not enough. We need more. The fakir sold me this powder… he said a few drops would make a man see heaven and a woman become a goddess. She will eat the prasad, a holy offering she cannot refuse. And then… then she won’t just be a kind woman. She will be whatever we need her to be. She will feel the power, and her own mind will command her to give us everything. Her milk, her body… her very soul. What a cruel trick;
He handed her the small, sweet, milky prasad in a clay cup. It seemed rude to refuse a religious offering. She eate it down quickly. It was surprisingly delicious.
Dipa: Your brother… has he been like this for long?
Murari: For two weeks. The light in his eyes is gone. The fakir said only the touch of a truly pure and generous woman, in human form, could awaken his soul. When Ramla Masi told me of you… I knew it was a sign from Gods.
As he spoke, the drab colors of the hut began to seem strangely vibrant. The light from the single bulb seemed to pulse gently. Dipa felt a warmth spread through her body, a sense of profound peace and connection to everything in the room.
Dipa: Ramla Masi, you can go now. Tukun will need you soon. Don't worry about me. I will stay here for a while.
Ramla: Okay, madam. As you wish.
Ramla left, closing the hut door behind her.
Dipa: Everything… is so… beautiful.
Murari: It is because you are here, madam. You bring the beauty with you.
She moved to the cot and sat beside the still figure. She reached out and placed her hand on Keshav’s shoulder.
Dipa: Keshav… can you hear me?
At her touch, he stirred. He turned slowly, his eyes finding hers. They were hollow, empty… but the sound of his voice was like a physical touch on her skin.
Keshav: Your… voice…
Dipa: You can speak!
Murari: It is a miracle! Madam, your power is working! Please, don’t stop!
Dipa felt a wave of dizzying power. She was feeling generous. She was healing him. The world around her was melting, swirling into patterns of light and sound. The only reality was her mission.
Dipa: Your sickness… it is because your body has forgotten pleasure. It has forgotten a woman’s touch.
She stood up, unpinning her sari with a fluid, graceful motion and letting the pallu fall. The patterns on the fabric seemed to dance and breathe. She unhooked her blouse, then her bra. Her breasts felt impossibly heavy, full of milk, the source of all life. They swung free, large and white and veined with blue, the nipples already hard and dark.
Murari gasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and pure, animal lust. Keshav, on the cot, pushed himself up onto one elbow, his dead eyes suddenly alight with a desperate fire.
Keshav: So… big…
Murari: Madam… they are… perfect.
Dipa: (smiling serenely) You need my milk. It is the nectar of life. It will cure you.
She leaned over Keshav, her nipple brushing his dry lips. He took it, his mouth surprisingly strong, latching on with a deep, hungry suckle. As he drank, she felt the energy flowing from her body into his. Milk was freely flowing from her nipples entering his mouth then onto his tongue and into his stomach. He was coming back to life. Murari was on his knees now, weeping with joy.
Murari: Your milk is bringing him back from the dead! Please, Memsahab, let me also drink from the sacred fountain! I need to share in this miracle!
Dipa: Of course, my child. There is enough for all who are suffering.
Murari scrambled to the other side of the cot, his face buried in her other breast. He latched on just as greedily as his brother. Now she had one at each breast, two hungry mouths drawing life from her. She felt like a tree, a river, a mountain—an eternal source.
Their hands came up to her breasts, squeezing and kneading the flesh to make the milk flow faster. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure through her drug-saturated body.
Keshav: (muffled) More… I feel the life returning… I feel like a man again…
Murari: It is so sweet, Memsahab! The sweetest thing I have ever tasted!
Dipa: Yes… drink, my children. Drink deep. Mere bachche aur piyo, bahut hai tum dono ke liye. My children, drink, there is plenty for both of you.
She caressed their heads, her fingers tangling in their hair, pressing their faces harder against her. She could feel the hard ridges of their erections pressing against her legs through their thin lungis. The drug in her system didn't register this as lust; it was a symptom of their recovery. Proof of her power. Her milk was not just feeding their bodies, it was restoring their manhood.
She smiled, a benevolent, holy smile, and reached down. Her hands found the hard bulges in their lungis. She squeezed them gently.
Dipa: You are becoming strong again. My power flows into you. The curse is broken.
Keshav: Your touch… your milk… I have never felt anything like this.
Murari: We want more, Memsahab. It is hard to drink like this. We are so weak.
Dipa: What do you need, my children? Tell your mother.
Murari: Please… if you could come on top of us… lie on the bed between us. Then we could drink properly. We could worship you as you deserve.
Dipa: Yes. Of course.
She stood and unfastened her sari, letting it pool on the floor. She stepped out of it, then her petticoat. She stood before them in just her panties, her huge, milk-slick breasts swaying. They stared, their mouths hanging open.
She lay down on the cot on her hands between them, her head propped on a pillow.
Dipa: Come, my children. It is time to finish your healing.
Keshav immediately took one nipple, his hands cupping the heavy globe. Murari took the other, his own hands mirroring his brother’s. They suckled with a renewed, frantic energy. She could feel their hard cocks pressing against her thighs, hot and insistent. She didn't mind. It was part of the ritual. Part of the cure.
She reached down again, away from their mouths, this time her hands finding the knots of their lungis. She untied them, letting the fabric fall away. Their erections sprang free, thick and hard and dark. She took one in each hand, stroking them.
Keshav: Your hands… they are magic…
Murari: Memsahab… you are making us whole again…
She felt like she was floating, a vessel of pure sensation and purpose. The sound of their wet mouths, the feeling of their hands on her breasts, the hard, pulsing weight of their cocks in her hands—it was all part of a single, perfect symphony of healing. They continued with their hands squeezing harder and harder, until she felt the last drops of milk leave her body. Her breasts were empty, soft, and exquisitely sensitive.
Their faces flushed, their eyes burning with a new kind of fire. They were no longer sick, cursed boys. They were men. Men she had created. Men she had healed.
And now, their healing required one final, sacred act.
To be continued..
=======
The erotic writer.
The erotic writer.
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