03-12-2025, 10:37 PM
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.
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.
Komal.
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