03-12-2025, 10:44 PM
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.
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.
Komal.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)