Incest ❣️❣️👅👅Mom's Mouth, Sis's Throat: Son's Load👅👅💋💋 (Completed)

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 12: Jyothi’s Anal Fuck




The diary's pages burned under my fingertips like smoldering embers, each word fanning the flames I'd thought banked after my hallway frenzy the night before. Jyothi's room felt smaller now, the air thicker with her lingering scent—jasmine and the faint, musky undertone of her solo sins—clinging to the sheets I'd just soiled with my own gush. My saree lay rumpled at my feet, petticoat twisted around my waist, blouse gaping open to bare my heaving breasts, nipples still peaked and aching from my self-mauling. Fingers slick with my cream, I licked them clean absentmindedly—salty-sweet echo of her words—before flipping to the next entry, dated two weeks after her first plunge. The ink was bolder here, loops tighter, as if the thrill had steadied her hand, or perhaps the addiction had taken hold.

*October 29 – Mukundh's flat again. Can't stay away. Last time's ache hasn't faded—pussy still tender from how he stretched me, but god, I crave more. Told Anna I was "meeting friends," but all I could think about on the bus was his thick cock, that cucumber girth splitting me open. He answered the door shirtless, sweat-glistened from some workout, grinning like he knew. "Missed this?" he teased, pulling me inside, hands already under my top to palm my tits, thumbs rolling my nipples till they throbbed. We barely made the couch—kissing sloppy and urgent, his tongue fucking my mouth while I ground against his thigh, soaking my jeans like a desperate slut.*




A fresh throb pulsed between my legs, my pussy—still sensitive from yesterday's marathon with Amar—clenching emptily, lips parting with a trickle of renewed arousal that dampened the mattress further. I shifted, spreading wider on her bed, one hand delving back to trace my folds—fingers parting the slickness to circle my clit slow, teasing, as the words pulled me deeper into her world. My other hand pinched a nipple, twisting until it stung, imagining her pert peaks under Mukundh's rough palms.

*He stripped me quick—jeans yanked down, panties shoved aside, flipping me onto my stomach over the armrest, ass up like an offering. "Gonna eat this pussy first, Jyothi—get you dripping for what's next." His tongue hit like lightning—broad laps from my clit back to my hole, delving deep to tongue-fuck my entrance, slurping my cream with wet, obscene sounds that made me bury my face in the cushion, moaning muffled. Fingers spread my cheeks then, his breath hot on my virgin pucker—"So tight... ever had this licked, baby?" No, but fuck, yes—his tongue circled the ring slow, teasing the wrinkled skin before probing shallow, the wet heat making me jolt, pussy clenching as fresh slick dripped down. "Mmm... tastes dirty-sweet. Push back, let me in." I did, whimpering as his tongue thrust deeper, rimming me open while two fingers plunged my pussy, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst, thumb pressing my clit.*

My breaths came ragged now, fingers mirroring the invasion—two plunging my channel with wet schlicks, curling against my ridge while my pinky teased my own ass, circling the tender ring still sore from Amar's claiming. The burn sparked illicit, my hips bucking off the bed as I chased the building coil, diary trembling in my lap.

*He flipped me then, pulling me to my knees—"Suck me hard, Jyothi. Get this cock sloppy for your ass." His dick loomed—thick as ever, 5 inches of stout meat, veins ridged like ropes, head bloated and slick. I engulfed him greedy, lips stretching wide around the girth, tongue swirling the underside as I bobbed deep—gagging when the thickness nudged my throat, saliva pooling to drip down his shaft in glossy trails. "Fuck... yeah, choke on it, baby—lube me up good." His hands guided my head, fucking my face in shallow jabs, balls slapping my chin as I hummed vibrations, one hand cupping them to suck a heavy orb into my mouth, rolling it while the other pumped his base. Precum leaked steady, salty bursts I swallowed like nectar, my pussy aching untouched, thighs slick from the rimming.*

Heat flooded me, clit throbbing under my circling thumb—now three fingers in my pussy, stretching with scissoring twists, pinky breaching my ass shallow, the dual fullness echoing her prep. A whimper escaped, hips grinding air as the coil wound tighter, breasts heaving with each pant.

*He pulled free with a pop, strings of spit connecting us, eyes feral. "On your back, legs up—gonna take this ass slow, make you beg for more." Heart hammering, I complied—knees to chest, ass presented, pucker winking under his stare. He slicked his cock with my saliva, rubbing the head along my crack—teasing my pussy first, dipping shallow to coat himself in my cream, then notching at my ring. "Breathe, baby... relax for me." Pressure built— the thick head pushing, my ring resisting, then yielding with a pop that tore a gasp from me, burn blooming hot as the first inch breached, stretching me impossibly wide. "Oh god... too thick—slow, Mukundh!" He froze, thumb circling my clit to ease the sting, leaning down to suck a nipple—tongue flicking the peak as he inched deeper, veins dragging my inner walls in friction that bordered pain. "Good girl... taking it so well—your ass is gripping me like a vice."*

Sweat beaded between my breasts, fingers plunging faster now—ass taking a full digit alongside the three in my pussy, the burn-pleasure cocktail driving me wild, clit lashed in furious circles as I chased her imagined stretch.

*Halfway in, the pain ebbed to fullness—divine, dirty pressure that had my pussy fluttering untouched, clit throbbing. "Move... fuck, fuck my ass slow." He did—pulling back torturous, then thrusting shallow, building rhythm as my body adjusted, the girth splitting me open with each plunge, balls tapping my cheeks. Fingers found my pussy then—two plunging deep, curling against my front wall to grind his cock through the thin barrier, thumb on my clit sparking lightning. "Yes... finger me while you ass-fuck me—make me cum on that thick dick!" Pace quickened—thrusts rhythmic now, deep and steady, the wet slap of his hips against my ass echoing as my body betrayed the burn, pushing back greedy, moans fracturing into keens. The coil snapped hard—ass clenching his length in spasms, pussy gushing around his fingers in a hot squirt that soaked his hand, arcing to splatter his abs as I screamed his name, body convulsing in waves that milked him deeper.*

My own release hit like a monsoon—fingers trapped in spasming heat, ass fluttering around the invading digit, a keen tearing from my throat as I squirted fierce against my palm, soaking the diary's edge, body arching off the bed in shuddering aftershocks. Tears streaked my cheeks, the intensity leaving me wrecked, breaths heaving as the words blurred through hazy vision: *He lost it then—grunting "Fuck... cumming in your ass, Jyothi!"—erupting deep, hot jets flooding my bowels in thick pulses that overflowed, bubbling around his girth as he ground through it, fingers still fucking my pussy to prolong the bliss. We panted together, his cock softening inside me, plugging the mess until he pulled free with a wet schlorp, cum trickling down my crack. "You're perfect... round two soon?" God, yes. Addicted already. Anna can never know... but fuck, I want to tell someone.*

I collapsed back, diary clutched to my chest like a talisman, body humming with sated echoes—guilt a distant whisper drowned by the thrill of her secrets mirroring mine. But the fire rekindled quick, a plan forming: slip this to Amar tonight, read it aloud while he takes my ass—let her words fuel his thrusts, the generational echo binding us tighter. The diary closed with a snap, but the hunger yawned wider, pulling me—and soon her—deeper into the feast.

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 13: Jyothi’s First Double Penetration




The diary lay splayed open on my lap like a confessional, its pages crinkled from my earlier frenzy, the ink blurring faintly where my squirt had splashed— a tangible mark of my complicity in her secrets. Jyothi's bed cradled me still, sheets twisted around my hips, saree abandoned in a heap on the floor, my naked form flushed and glistening in the afternoon light slanting through the half-drawn curtains. My pussy throbbed with aftershocks, lips parted and slick, a trickle of fresh arousal seeping onto the mattress as I caught my breath, fingers idly tracing the dark thatch above my mound. The air hummed with her presence—floral lotion undercut by the faint, tangy echo of my release—and guilt flickered, brief as a moth's wing, drowned by the insatiable pull of her words. Two weeks since her anal awakening, the entries grew fevered, spaced closer, as if the pen couldn't keep pace with her unraveling. I flipped forward, heart quickening at the date: November 12, a Friday night entry, the script jagged with excitement.

*November 12 – Panic. Thrill. Both. Mukundh texted mid-class: "Flat tonight. Ajay's coming too—my roommate, remember? The quiet one from the hostel? He knows about us... wants to watch. Or more. You game?" Ajay—god, the virgin, that lanky boy from their shared engineering dorm, all awkward smiles and stolen glances during group hangs. Mukundh had teased about him jerking off to my pics once, after I sent that topless selfie post-fuck. Heart hammered, but pussy clenched hard under my desk, soaking my panties through lecture. Texted back: "Watch first. More if it feels right." Bus ride home was torture—thighs rubbing, clit aching, imagining two cocks, one thick like Mukundh's, Ajay's slimmer but longer from the locker room whispers. Anna texted about dinner; lied smooth: "Girls' night." Slipped out in jeans and a loose tee, no bra—nipples rubbing the fabric, already half-hard.*



My hand wandered again, unresisting—fingers dipping into my slick folds, parting them to plunge two deep, curling slow against that spongy ridge as the words ignited me. The bed creaked under my subtle shift, breasts heaving with each shallow pant, one nipple grazed by the diary's edge, sending a spark straight to my core.

*Door opens—Mukundh pulls me in, mouth on mine before it shuts, hands yanking my tee up to maul my tits, thumbs pinching nipples till I gasp into his kiss. "Ajay's in the bedroom... nervous, but hard as rock for you." Led me there—Ajay on the bed, shorts tented obvious, cheeks red but eyes hungry, flicking from my exposed breasts to my flushed face. "Hey... Jyothi. This okay?" Mukundh grinned, pushing me down beside him—"More than okay. Show him how you suck cock, baby." No hesitation—Ajay's shorts down, his dick springs free: 7 inches, slim but straight as an arrow, veined lightly, head pink and leaking. Wrapped my lips around it tentative—salty tang, smoother than Mukundh's girth, taking him easy to the base, tongue swirling the underside as I bobbed slow, humming vibrations that made him buck, hands fisting the sheets. "Fuck... Jyothi, your mouth... so good." Mukundh watched, stroking his thick cucumber through his pants, then joined—kneeling beside, feeding me his length next, alternating: Ajay's length down my throat, then Mukundh's stretch gagging me, saliva dripping in strings to coat their balls.*

Heat coiled low, my fingers plunging deeper—three now, stretching my channel with wet schlicks that echoed softly, thumb lashing my clit in frantic circles, the burn building as I pictured her on her knees, mouth stuffed with boy-cock, eyes watering from the girth switch. Free hand mauled my breast, pinching the nipple hard—twisting until it throbbed, milk-white beads of sweat—or was it something more?—glistening on the dusky peak.

*They stood then, cocks bobbing—Ajay tentative, Mukundh directing: "On the bed, ass up—gonna DP you slow, baby. Ajay in your pussy, me in that tight ass you love." Heart raced, but I obeyed—knees on the mattress, ass high, cheeks spread by my own hands to bare both holes, pucker winking from last week's lube remnants, pussy dripping down my thighs. Mukundh slicked Ajay first—his hand pumping the slim length, then rubbing through my folds, coating him in my cream. "Breathe... here it comes." Ajay notched at my entrance, pushing in slow—the length sliding easy, filling me deep without the burn, bottoming out with a groan as my walls clenched greedy. "So wet... Jyothi, you're heaven." Mukundh prepped my ass next—fingers dipping in my pussy for lube, then circling my ring, breaching with one, then two, scissoring till I pushed back whimpering. His thick head nudged then—pressure building, ring yielding with that familiar pop, the girth stretching me wide around him as he sank inch by stout inch, Ajay's cock rubbing through the wall in delicious friction.*

Breaths came in pants now, my rhythm frantic—fingers a blur in my pussy, pinky joining to tease my ass shallow, the dual echo driving me wild, clit swollen and pulsing under my thumb. Hips bucked off the bed, breasts swaying heavy, one hand abandoning the nipple to fist the sheets—imagining her position, stuffed full, the obscene fullness of two cocks claiming her at once.

*Full—god, so full. Ajay shallow thrusts first, pulling back as Mukundh pushed in, their rhythms syncing slow: one out, the other deep, the thin barrier letting me feel every vein, every ridge dragging my walls. "Fuck... Jyothi, your ass is milking me—take us both, slut." Mukundh growled, hands spanking my cheeks red, the sting blooming hot as Ajay's fingers found my clit, circling clumsy but eager, his other hand mauling my swinging tit, pinching the nipple till I keened. Pace built—thrusts harder, deeper, Ajay's length kissing my cervix while Mukundh's girth split my ass wide, the slap of their hips against me a thunderclap, wet schlicks and grunts filling the room. "Switch—Ajay, ass now; I'll take her pussy." They pulled free with wet pops, cum—precum?—bubbling from my holes, then repositioned: Ajay's slim cock at my pucker, sliding in easy with Mukundh's lube, the new angle hitting nerves that sparked lightning; Mukundh's thickness breaching my pussy, stretching the lips white as he bottomed out, balls slapping Ajay's.*

The coil wound vicious—fingers plunging knuckle-deep, ass taking two digits now, the stretch burning exquisite, clit lashed raw under my thumb as sweat slicked my skin, breaths fracturing into moans that echoed her imagined cries.

*Synced frenzy now—Ajay pounding my ass with growing confidence, slim length pistoning deep; Mukundh hammering my pussy, girth dragging my walls in suction, their cocks rubbing through the barrier in filthy harmony, hands everywhere: spanking, pinching, one thumb teasing my clit while the other circled my stretched ring. "Cumming... boys—fuck, make me squirt on your cocks!" It hit cataclysmic—body seizing, ass and pussy clamping in vise spasms, hot gush erupting from my pussy to soak Mukundh's abs, arcing between us as Ajay grunted "Tight... cumming in your ass!"—flooding my bowels with thin jets; Mukundh roaring next, "Take it deep, baby!"—thick ropes painting my womb, overflowing both holes in creamy mess. Collapsed between them, panting, cum leaking everywhere, their cocks softening inside me. "Again... soon?" Whispered yes. Anna would die... but god, I need this.*

Climax ambushed me—walls convulsing around my fingers, ass fluttering the digits in ripples, a wail tearing free as I squirted fierce—hot arcs soaking the diary, the sheets, my thighs quaking in endless waves that left me shattered, tears streaming from the raw intensity. Diary clutched like a lifeline, body humming sated but sparking anew—her double plunge a mirror to my fantasies of Amar and Sampath, the generational feast calling louder. Tonight, I'd share this page with him—read it while he stuffs me full, the words our fuel. The pull tightened; soon, she'd join, and the table would groan under us all.

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 14: Jyothi’s Gangbang




The diary's spine creaked like a guilty whisper as I turned to the next cluster of entries, my body still humming from the double-penetration revelation that had left me shattered on Jyothi's bed—sheets twisted and damp beneath me, a dark stain blooming where my squirt had arced, the tangy scent of my release mingling with her faint jasmine like a perverse perfume. Afternoon light slanted lower now, casting golden bars across my naked form—saree discarded in a crumpled heap by the door, blouse unbuttoned and dangling from one shoulder, my heavy breasts spilling free, nipples dusky and erect from the cool draft whispering through the window. My thighs ached from their spread, pussy lips swollen and parted, a lazy trickle of arousal seeping onto the mattress as residual throbs echoed in my core. Fingers sticky with my cream, I licked them absently—salty-sweet, echoing the imagined taste of her boys' loads—before my gaze snagged on the date: November 18, just six days after the DP thrill, the handwriting frantic, ink smudged as if penned in haste, post-climax.

*November 18 – Disaster? Ecstasy? Can't decide. Mukundh cornered me after lit class—"Party at my flat tonight. The guys from the group chat... they know about us. Want pics. Videos. You in?" The "guys"—Abhay, Raj, Vikram, and that new one, Karan—all Mukundh's hostel mates, the ones who'd catcalled me during fests, their eyes stripping me bare over cheap beers. Heart slammed, but pussy clenched hard under my skirt, clit throbbing against soaked panties. Whispered yes, but nerves hit on the walk— what if Anna finds out? What if it's too much? Texted Mukundh: "Blowjob only? No full?" His reply: "We'll see how slutty you get, baby. Wear that short dress." Slipped home, changed quick—black mini from the hidden drawer, no bra, thong that rode up my ass crack, nipples poking through the thin fabric like beacons.*

Heat flushed my skin anew, a low moan escaping as I pictured her—my lithe girl, curves hugged by that sinful dress, stepping into the lion's den with a thrill that mirrored my own first betrayals. My hand drifted south without volition, fingers parting my slick folds—still tender from self-plunging—to circle my engorged clit slow, teasing the nub with feather-light strokes that sparked lightning up my spine. The bed dipped under my subtle arch, breasts heaving with each shallow breath, one hand abandoning the diary to cup a globe—thumb rolling the nipple in lazy pinches that tugged a whimper from my throat.



*Flat reeks of beer and weed when I arrive—music thumping low, four of them sprawled on the couch and floor, eyes lighting like wolves as Mukundh pulls me in, hand possessive on my ass, squeezing through the dress. "Boys... meet Jyothi. The slut from my stories." Laughter ripples, but hungry—Abhay, the cocky one with the fade, stands first: "Finally. Been jerking to your pics, babe." They circle casual-like, passing a joint I hit deep to steady nerves, smoke curling lazy as hands brush—Raj's on my thigh, hiking the hem to flash my thong; Vikram's at my back, fingers tracing my spine till I shiver; Karan, the quiet giant, just watches, bulge obvious in his track pants. Mukundh kisses me then—tongue deep, hand cupping my tit through the dress, pinching the nipple till it peaks hard, drawing whistles. "On your knees, baby—show 'em how you suck."*

My clit pulsed under my circling thumb—now slick with fresh cream—fingers dipping shallow into my entrance, two curling to stroke that ridge inside with languid twists, the wet schlick faint but obscene in the quiet room. Hips canted subtly, grinding against my palm as sweat beaded between my breasts, the diary trembling in my grip.

*Floor's cool on my knees as I drop—Mukundh first, unzipping to free his thick cucumber, 5 inches stout and rigid, head flaring angry as I wrap my lips around it, sucking greedy, tongue swirling the ridge while my hand pumps the base. "Fuck... yeah, deepthroat it, slut." Gagging soft, I take him halfway, saliva dripping to coat his balls, which I cup and suck one into my mouth—rolling it humming—drawing groans. They watch rapt, hands palming their own bulges, until Abhay steps up—"My turn." Mukundh pulls free with a pop, strings of spit connecting, and Abhay's out: 6 inches, curved up, veined heavy. Lips stretch wider, bobbing deep till he hits my throat, hands fisting my hair to fuck my face shallow— "Choke on it, Jyothi—good girl." Saliva cascades, chin glossy, as I alternate: Raj's slim 5-incher next, easy to swallow whole, humming vibrations that make him buck; Vikram's girthy 6.5, gagging me hard, tears pricking as he grinds my nose to pubes; Karan last, massive 8 inches slim but long, snaking down my throat till I retch, his quiet grunts turning feral.*

Fingers plunged deeper—three now, stretching my walls with scissoring urgency, pinky joining to tease my ass ring shallow, the burn-pleasure duo winding the coil vicious as my thumb lashed my clit raw, breaths fracturing into pants that fogged the page.

*They circle tighter then—Mukundh directing: "Strip her, boys. Let's see that body." Hands everywhere—Abhay yanking the dress over my head, Vikram unhooking the thong with a snap, leaving me bare on my knees, tits bouncing free, nipples diamond-hard, pussy lips puffy and dripping down my thighs. Raj pushes me back onto the low coffee table—legs splayed wide, ass at the edge—as Mukundh kneels first, burying his face in my folds: tongue lapping from entrance to clit in broad strokes, spearing deep to scoop my cream, then sucking my nub with wet pops that have me arching, hands fisting his hair. "Mmm... so wet for us, slut—gonna eat this pussy while they watch." Fingers plunge—two thick ones curling inside, thumb on my clit—till I'm grinding down, moaning loud, the coil snapping quick: "Cumming... fuck, drink it!" Hot gush floods his mouth, arcing to soak his chin as he laps greedy, boys cheering filthy—"Squirt queen!"—cocks out now, stroking slow to the show.*

Sweat slicked my skin, fingers a blur—pussy stuffed full, ass taking a full digit now, thrusting in tandem with the imagined tongue, clit throbbing under relentless circles as my free hand mauled my breast—nails raking the underside, pinching the nipple till it burned, tears pricking from the building storm.

*He rises, wiping his mouth—"Your pussy's ready. Abhay, Vikram—DP her first. Raj, Karan, feed her cock." Heart thunders as Abhay notches my pussy—6-inch curve sliding easy into my slick heat, bottoming with a grunt; Vikram at my ass, slicked with my squirt, pushing slow—the girth stretching my ring white, popping past the head with a burn that makes me gasp, inching deeper till full, their cocks rubbing through the wall in filthy friction. "Fuck... so tight, Jyothi—taking two cocks like a pro." They thrust synced—Abhay deep when Vikram pulls shallow, pace building to wet slaps, hands mauling my tits, pinching nipples as I keen, the fullness overwhelming. Raj and Karan straddle my chest then—cocks slapping my cheeks, one in my mouth at a time: sucking Raj deep while Karan's tip smears precum on my lips, alternating gags and slurps, saliva dripping to lube their shafts.*

The coil detonated—fingers trapped in spasming heat, ass clenching the digit in vise ripples, a guttural wail tearing free as I squirted fierce—hot jets arcing from my pussy to splatter Abhay's abs, soaking the table in a puddle, body convulsing in endless waves that milked their cocks, tears streaming down my cheeks from the raw overload. Diary clutched white-knuckled, aftershocks rippling through me like echoes, leaving me boneless, breaths heaving as the final lines swam into focus: *They rotated—every hole stuffed, positions blurring: me riding Karan reverse while Raj fucked my ass, Mukundh in my mouth; then full gangbang, four cocks in rotation, creampies in pussy and ass, cum on tits and face, swallowing what I could while squirting again and again. Exhausted, glazed, leaking everywhere—texted a cab home at dawn, body wrecked but buzzing. Anna messaged: "Late night?" Lied: "Movie marathon." But god... want more. Want Anna to know? No... yes? The high's addictive. Tomorrow?*

I sagged back, spent and sticky, the generational mirror cracking wider—her gangbang a siren call to my own fantasies of Amar's friends circling me. Tonight, the diary would join us in bed—her words read aloud as he pounds me, the feast expanding. The pull was inexorable; soon, she'd taste it firsthand.

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 15: Son’s & His Friends’ Whore



The evening light filtered through the half-drawn curtains of the living room, casting long, golden shadows across the teak floor that seemed to stretch endlessly, like the slow uncoiling of a secret long held in the dark. I sat on the edge of the sofa, my saree draped loosely around my hips, the cotton fabric whispering against my skin with every subtle shift of my body. The house was quiet now, the distant hum of the ceiling fan the only sound breaking the stillness, its blades turning lazy circles overhead as if mirroring the deliberate rhythm of my thoughts. My fingers traced idle patterns on the armrest, nails catching lightly on the worn upholstery, while my mind wandered back to the diary's pages—Jyothi's words, vivid and unyielding, painting pictures of her surrender to multiple hands, multiple mouths, the overwhelming fullness of being shared like a feast. A warmth bloomed low in my belly, unhurried but insistent, spreading through my limbs like honey poured slow from a tilted jar.



Amar entered the room then, his footsteps measured on the tiles, each one echoing softly in the quiet space between us. He paused in the doorway for a moment, his broad frame filling the archway, shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the dark trail of hair descending his chest. His eyes met mine across the room, dark and knowing, holding my gaze without rush, as if he could see the flush creeping up my neck, the way my breath caught just a little in my throat. He moved closer, not with the urgency of our stolen nights, but with a deliberate grace, lowering himself onto the sofa beside me. His thigh pressed warm against mine, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us thickened, charged with the weight of unspoken desires, the kind that built like distant thunder rolling in from the sea.



"Amma," he said finally, his voice low and even, the word drawn out like a caress, his hand coming to rest on my knee. His fingers splayed there, palm flat and steady, thumb tracing a single, slow circle over the saree's pleats. "You've been quiet today. Thinking about her diary again?" I nodded, my lips parting to release a soft exhale, the confession slipping free without effort. "Yes, kanna. Jyothi's words... they stir something in me. All those boys, taking her one after another, filling her until she overflowed. It makes me ache, imagining it—not just for her, but for myself." My voice was steady, each word measured, as if speaking them aloud wove them into reality, thread by careful thread.

He turned slightly toward me, his free hand lifting to cup my chin, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. His touch was firm but unhurried, thumb brushing the curve of my lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the warmth of his skin against mine. "You want that too, don't you? To be shared. To feel hands on you that aren't just mine—mouths, cocks, all claiming you while I watch." The question hung there, simple and direct, no demand in it, only the quiet invitation to admit what simmered beneath my skin. I leaned into his palm, my tongue darting out to taste the salt of his thumb, a slow lick that drew a low hum from his throat. "I do," I whispered, the words full and complete, carrying the weight of my longing. "I want to beg for it, kanna. To be your whore, passed around for your friends to use. Let them see how Amma takes cock—how she squirts and begs like the slut she's become."



A slow smile curved his lips, not triumphant, but satisfied, as if my confession was a gift unwrapped with care. His hand slid from my chin, trailing down the column of my throat, fingers splaying over the rapid pulse there before descending to the swell of my breast. He cupped it gently at first, palm molding to the heavy curve, then squeezed with deliberate pressure, thumb circling the nipple through the blouse until it hardened to a tight peak. I arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping me, my own hand rising to cover his, guiding him to pinch harder, the sting blooming warm and welcome. "Then beg," he murmured, his voice a rumble against my ear as he leaned closer, breath warm on my skin. "Call them now. Tell Abhay, Suresh, Satish—they're already hard for you from the pics I sent. Make them come over. Make them fuck you raw while I direct."

The phone lay on the side table, its screen dark and waiting, and I reached for it with steady hands, no tremor in my fingers despite the heat pooling between my thighs. I dialed Abhay first—Mukundh in our twisted code, the one who'd tasted Jyothi before me—his voice crackling through on the second ring, laced with that cocky edge. "Anna? What's up?" I paused, letting the silence stretch, my free hand slipping under my saree to brush the damp gusset of my panties, fingers pressing lightly against the ache. "Abhay," I said, each syllable clear and unhurried, "Amar wants you over. Now. With Suresh and Satish. I need you—all of you. To use me like the whore I am." A beat of stunned silence, then his laugh, low and hungry. "Fuck... on our way. Ten minutes." The line went dead, and I called the others, the words flowing the same—simple, direct, laced with the raw edge of my desire—until the last click echoed in the quiet room.



Amar watched me through it all, his hand never leaving my breast, kneading slow and possessive, as if savoring the build. When the phone slipped from my fingers, he pulled me closer, mouth descending to claim mine in a kiss that unfolded without haste—lips parting mine, tongue exploring deep and thorough, tasting the lingering salt of my earlier confessions. His hand trailed lower, parting the saree's pleats to delve between my thighs, fingers finding my soaked folds and stroking with unhurried strokes—one dipping shallow into my entrance, curling just enough to tease that ridge inside, drawing a soft moan from me that he swallowed whole. "Good girl," he breathed against my lips, pulling back to meet my eyes again. "Now wait. Let the ache build. Feel how wet you are for them—for me watching you break."

Time stretched then, deliberate and languid, the minutes marked by the slow tick of the wall clock and the growing dampness soaking my panties. I leaned back against the sofa, legs parting slightly under his gaze, hand wandering to trace the outline of my mound through the fabric, pressing just enough to feel the throb. Amar sat beside me, casual in his stillness, but his cock strained visibly against his shorts, a thick ridge that made my mouth water. We spoke in low tones—about Jyothi's diary, the way her body had yielded to multiples, the sounds she must have made as they filled her—and with each word, his fingers returned to me, circling my clit through the wet cotton, building the tension without release, until my breaths came shallow, hips shifting in subtle plea.

The doorbell rang like a punctuation mark, sharp but not jarring, and Amar rose without hurry, opening the door to let them in—Abhay first, his lean frame filling the threshold, eyes raking over me with open hunger; Suresh behind him, stocky and smirking, already palming himself through his jeans; Satish last, the quiet one with the athlete's build, his flush betraying the virgin edge beneath his nod. They filed in, the door clicking shut behind them, and for a moment, the room held its breath—the air heavy with their mingled scents of sweat and cologne, the subtle rustle of clothes as they shifted, eyes locked on me where I sat, saree disheveled, blouse gaping to hint at the curves beneath.

Amar spoke first, his voice even and commanding, cutting the silence like a knife through silk. "She's yours tonight. Amma wants to be used—throats, holes, all of it. Rough as you like. But you follow my lead." They nodded, a chorus of low affirmatives, and moved closer as one, surrounding the sofa in a loose circle that made my pulse thunder slow and deep in my ears. Abhay stepped forward first, hands reaching for my blouse—buttons slipping free one by one, deliberate, until the fabric parted to bare my breasts fully, heavy and swaying as I breathed. His palms cupped them, thumbs rolling the nipples in slow circles that tugged gasps from me, the sensation blooming warm under his touch. "Fuck... these tits, aunty-like but perky. Been dreaming of sucking them." He leaned down, mouth latching onto one peak—tongue flicking lazy before sucking deep, teeth grazing just enough to sting, while Suresh mirrored on the other side, his mouth rougher, beard scraping my skin as he pulled hard, drawing milk-white beads of sweat to his lips.

I arched into them, hands rising to fist their hair—not guiding, but holding, feeling the pull as Satish knelt before me, parting my knees wide with steady hands. His fingers traced my inner thighs, nails grazing lightly up the sensitive skin, until they reached the soaked core of my panties—peeling them aside slow, exposing my glistening folds to the room's cool air. "So wet already," he murmured, voice hushed and reverent, his breath ghosting over my clit before his tongue extended—one long, flat lap from entrance to nub that made my hips jolt, the contact lingering as he savored the taste. "Sweet... like ripe fruit." He delved deeper then, tongue spearing my entrance in unhurried thrusts, curling inside to scoop my cream, while his fingers—two thick ones—joined, sliding in alongside his tongue to stretch me gentle, scissoring slow against my walls.

Amar watched from his perch on the armrest, cock freed now, fisted lazy in his hand—stroking with measured pulls, eyes dark as he drank in the sight. "Throat her next, Abhay. Make her gag while Satish eats her out." Abhay pulled free from my breast with a wet pop, rising to straddle the sofa's edge—his jeans shoved down to free his length, 6 inches curved and rigid, veins pulsing under the skin. He guided it to my lips, rubbing the head along the seam—smearing precum salty across them—before pressing forward slow, parting me inch by inch. I opened wide, tongue extending to lap the underside as he sank deeper, the curve hitting the roof of my mouth, nudging my throat with deliberate pressure. "Take it, Amma... choke on your son's friend like the whore you begged to be." Gags bubbled soft as he thrust shallow, saliva pooling to drip down my chin, coating his balls that slapped lightly against my neck with each bob.

Suresh and Satish didn't pause—Suresh's mouth returned to my free nipple, sucking harder now, teeth nipping the peak in rhythmic pulls that sent jolts straight to my core; Satish's tongue worked relentless, lapping my clit in figure-eight swirls while his fingers curled inside me, stroking that ridge with unyielding precision, thumb pressing firm on my nub. The build was slow, deliberate—a tide rising steady rather than crashing wild—my body coiling under their touches, breaths ragged around Abhay's cock, hips grinding down onto Satish's face as wetness smeared his chin. Amar leaned in closer, his free hand reaching to pinch my other nipple—twisting slow, drawing a muffled keen from me that vibrated through Abhay, making him buck deeper. "That's it... feel her clench, Satish. She's close—make her squirt on your tongue while she throats him."

The coil tightened then, inch by inexorable inch—Satish's fingers thrusting deeper, tongue flicking faster but still measured, the suction on my nipples pulling like threads connected to my core. Abhay's hand fisted my hair gentle, guiding my head to take him fuller, the gag wet and throaty as tears pricked my eyes, mascara streaking slow down my cheeks. It broke over me gradual, a wave cresting high and lingering—pussy fluttering around Satish's digits, walls rippling in long, drawn spasms as hot gush released in steady arcs, soaking his palm, his mouth, trickling down his wrist to pool on the floor. He drank it down, humming approval that vibrated through me, prolonging the bliss until my body sagged, spent but humming.

They didn't let me rest. Abhay pulled free with a slick pop, strings of saliva bridging us, his cock twitching shiny in the light. "On the floor, Amma—doggy. Suresh in your pussy, Satish your ass. DP her slow first—let her feel every inch." I slid down without protest, knees meeting the rug soft, ass presented high as hands guided me—Suresh behind, his stocky frame pressing close, cock—5 inches thick and straight—rubbing along my crack before notching my entrance. He pushed in unhurried, the girth filling me steady, walls yielding with a wet suction that drew a sigh from us both, bottoming out with his belly against my cheeks. Satish mirrored at my ass—fingers slicking the ring first, then his length, 7 inches slim but rigid, breaching slow past the tight muscle, the pop echoing faint as he sank deeper, the dual fullness blooming like a flower unfurling petal by petal.

They moved then in tandem—Suresh pulling back as Satish thrust forward, their cocks rubbing through the thin barrier in languid drags that sparked fire along every nerve, hands roaming my body: Suresh spanking my ass cheek light, the crack blooming warm; Satish reaching under to roll a nipple between his fingers, tugging with each hilt. Abhay knelt before me, feeding his curved length back into my mouth—thrusts matching their rhythm, shallow and deep in turns, saliva dripping steady to lube the way. Amar circled us, directing with low words—"Deeper, Suresh—grind her clit with your base; Satish, twist when you bottom out"—his cock in hand, stroking slow as he watched my body yield, holes stretched and slick, moans muffled around Abhay's girth.

The pace built gradual, like a river swelling after rain—thrusts lengthening, slaps growing wetter, the room filling with the symphony of flesh on flesh, gasps and grunts weaving through. My core tightened again, unhurried but inevitable—pussy clenching Suresh in ripples, ass fluttering Satish as the friction ignited, Abhay's cock hitting my throat in time. "Cum for them, Amma," Amar murmured, kneeling close to whisper hot against my ear, his hand sliding under to circle my clit—slow, firm pressure that tipped the scale. It crested full and languid, body quaking in waves that rolled deep, squirting around Suresh's pistoning length in steady pulses, soaking his thighs as they groaned, holding steady to milk every spasm.

They chased their releases then, no rush—Suresh erupting first, hot jets flooding my pussy in thick ropes that overflowed with each thrust, bubbling down my crack to slick Satish's balls; Satish followed, grinding deep to paint my bowels white, the warmth spreading slow as Abhay pulled free to fist himself over my face—ropes arcing lazy across my cheeks, lips, tongue darting to catch the salty strands. Cum dripped everywhere—leaking from my holes, glazing my skin— as they withdrew gentle, cocks softening with satisfied sighs.

But the night unfolded further, rotations deliberate and thorough: me riding Abhay reverse while Suresh took my ass, Satish in my mouth; then full circle, all three stuffing me in turns—throats, pussies, asses claimed one by one, creampies and facials layering until I glistened, body a canvas of their seed. Orgasms chained slow—each building on the last, squirting in arcs that soaked the rug, their hands and mouths worshipping every curve. Amar joined at the end, directing the finale—me on my back, legs wide as they took turns pounding my pussy while he claimed my throat, his load the last, swallowed deep as the others painted my tits.

By midnight, we lay tangled on the floor—bodies slick and spent, breaths syncing in the afterglow. "Frequent now," Amar murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, cum still leaking warm from my holes. "My friends' whore—Amma's holes always open." I nodded, sated and owned, the slow burn of submission a balm. The visits became ritual—weekly feasts that normalized the depravity, their cocks a constant in my days. But as they dressed and left with promises of more, Jyothi's diary called from the bedroom, the web tightening further. Soon, she'd join the table, and the feast would grow.

 

[Rajizexy]

### Chapter 5: Horny for My Son's Cock




The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn curtains like a judgmental eye, casting elongated shadows across the living room floor where I'd collapsed after Amar's claiming. My body was a canvas of his conquest—saree rumpled and stained with pearly streaks that cooled sticky against my skin, blouse torn open to bare my heaving breasts, nipples still peaked and glistening from where his thumbs had roughed them into submission. Cum painted me in abstract patterns: ropes dried flaky on my cheeks, a glossy trail snaking from my chin to pool in the valley between my tits, the salty tang lingering on my tongue like a brand. I knelt there, knees grinding into the worn rug, thighs slick with my own unspent arousal—pussy lips swollen and weeping, clenching around the void he'd left, aching for the stretch only he could give. The house was silent, save for the distant honk of a lorry on the main road and the erratic thud of my heart, but inside me, a storm raged: shame's afterburn clashing with a triumphant, slutty glow. I'd confessed, begged, and he'd taken my mouth like it was his right—throat-fucked his Amma until I gagged and teared, then tit-fucked her udders until he erupted like a geyser, marking me as his property. And god, I wanted more. Needed it. The hollowness between my legs screamed for invasion, for that 9-inch monster to split me wide and fill the womb that birthed it.



I stirred finally, limbs heavy as lead, gathering the shreds of my dignity to stumble to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was merciless: lips bee-stung and shiny, eyes smudged with kohl-streaked tears, hair a wild halo framing my flushed face. Cum flaked from my lashes as I blinked, scooping a finger through the mess on my chest to suck it clean—salty, thick, his essence sliding down my throat like forbidden communion. The shower beckoned, hot water cascading over my curves in punishing streams that did little to wash away the heat coiling low in my belly. Soaping my breasts, thumbs circling the abused nipples, I whimpered at the spark it sent straight to my core; between my thighs, fingers delved unbidden, parting slick folds to plunge into the sopping heat, but it was futile—shallow echoes of what I craved. "Amar... kanna, come fuck Amma properly," I murmured to the steam-fogged glass, hips bucking against my hand until a weak climax rippled through me, more tease than release, leaving me hungrier, trembling against the tiles.

By evening, the house refilled like a pot simmering back to boil. Jyothi breezed in first, backpack slung over one shoulder, chattering about her fest rehearsals with Mukundh—his hands on her waist during a dance routine, the way he'd whispered something that made her giggle and blush. I nodded absently from the kitchen, stirring sambar with wooden spoon in hand, but my mind wandered to her phone's gallery, those filthy pics Amar had shown me: her fingers buried in her own pussy, begging for her brother's cock. Did she know about us yet? Would she watch, join, her tongue lapping where mine had? The thought sent a fresh gush down my thighs, hidden by the saree's folds. My husband returned next, tie loosened, briefcase thudding to the floor as he pecked my cheek—his touch clinical, stirring nothing but pity. Dinner was a farce: laughter over curd rice, Amar's foot brushing mine under the table in deliberate accident, his eyes locking on mine with a promise that made my fork clatter. "Pass the pickle, Amma," he said innocently, but the double entendre hung heavy, my cheeks burning as I complied, imagining him pickling my holes with his seed.



Night cloaked the house in conspiratorial dark, the ceiling fan's whir a white noise to my racing pulse. My husband snored beside me, oblivious as ever, his back a wall between us. But sleep evaded me, body thrumming like a temple drum, every nerve alight with the memory of Amar's grip on my throat, the slap of his balls against my chin. Past midnight, when the clock's glow read 1:12, I slipped from the sheets—nightie whispering against my skin, no panties beneath, the air cool on my bare mound. The hallway was a gauntlet of shadows, each creak a risk, but the pull to his door was inexorable, a moth to his flame. It stood ajar, as if expecting me, the faint blue glow of his phone screen illuminating his form sprawled on the bed: shirtless, sheets tangled low on his hips, one hand idly stroking the outline of his semi-hard cock through his shorts.

He didn't startle as I entered, eyes flicking up from whatever depraved chat with Jyothi he was scrolling—probably another nude of her, fingered and waiting. "Couldn't stay away, huh, Amma? Horny for your son's cock already?" His voice was sleep-rough, laced with amusement that curled my toes, but the hunger in his gaze mirrored mine. I crossed the threshold, door clicking shut behind me like a vow, and knelt at the bed's edge without a word—eyes locked on that bulge, mouth watering anew. "Yes, kanna... Amma's pussy aches for it. Touched myself in the shower thinking of you, but it's not enough. Need you inside me—properly this time." He chuckled low, tossing the phone aside to sit up, the sheet falling away to reveal his full glory: shorts shoved down, cock springing free, already thickening to its full 9-inch glory, veined and curving upward, head flaring like a challenge.

"Strip, slut. Show Anna what he's claiming tonight." The command brooked no argument, and I obeyed with trembling hands—nightie peeled over my head in one fluid motion, baring my curves to his devouring stare: heavy breasts swaying free, nipples dusky and erect; belly soft with the mark of motherhood, flaring to wide hips and the dark thatch framing my swollen sex, lips parted and glistening in the lamplight. Naked, vulnerable, I crawled onto the bed at his gesture, knees bracketing his thighs as he lay back, hands roaming my skin like a proprietor's—palming my tits, thumbs rolling the peaks until I arched with a gasp, then trailing down to cup my ass, spreading the cheeks to expose me fully. "So wet already... dripping for your boy. Spread for me—let Amma's son taste that forbidden honey."

I did, shifting to straddle his chest, pussy hovering above his face as his hands guided my descent. The first lap of his tongue was electric—a broad, flat stroke from my dripping entrance to the throbbing clit that made my thighs quake, his hum vibrating through my core like thunder. "Fuck... tastes like sin, Amma—sweet and salty, all for me." He devoured me then, no mercy: tongue spearing deep into my clenching walls, curling to scoop my nectar, then retreating to suckle my nub with wet pops that had me grinding down, smothering him in my folds. Fingers joined the assault—two thick digits plunging knuckle-deep, stretching my channel with scissoring twists that hit that spongy ridge inside, making stars burst behind my eyes. "Yes—finger your Amma's pussy, kanna! Make it gush for you!" I begged, hands fisting the headboard, hips bucking in frantic circles as his thumb circled my back entrance—teasing the virgin pucker, slick with my own cream, dipping shallowly to breach the tight ring.

The dual invasion shattered me: pussy stuffed with his fingers, curling relentlessly; ass clenching around the probing tip, the burn blooming into illicit pleasure that had me keening, body coiling tight. "Gonna cum... oh god, Anna, drink Amma's squirt!" The orgasm hit like a cyclone—walls spasming around his digits, a hot flood erupting from my depths to soak his chin, his open mouth gulping greedily as I convulsed, thighs clamping his ears, tears pricking from the intensity. He didn't stop, lapping through the waves until I sagged, oversensitive and whimpering, his face emerging glazed and triumphant, lips shiny with my release.

But he wasn't done—far from it. Flipping me onto my back with effortless strength, he loomed over me, cock bobbing heavy between us, a bead of precum dangling from the slit like temptation incarnate. "Ride me, whore. Take your son's cock in that greedy maternal cunt—show me how bad you need it." I scrambled up, legs splaying wide as I positioned over him, grasping his shaft—god, so hot, so thick in my palm—and rubbing the head through my slick lips, coating him in the remnants of my climax. The breach was exquisite agony: tip nudging my entrance, stretching the puffy folds white-knuckled as I sank down inch by girthy inch, inner walls yielding to the invasion with wet suction. "Fuuuck... so big, kanna—splitting Amma open, just like you were meant to!" Halfway, then more, until I bottomed out—cervix kissed by his flare, balls snug against my ass, the fullness overwhelming, every vein dragging against my sensitive flesh.

I rode him like salvation—hips slamming down in piston drops, breasts bouncing wildly to slap my chest, the lewd schlick of our union filling the room like a profane mantra. His hands mauled me: one spanking my ass with sharp cracks that reddened the cheeks, the other pinching my clit between thrusts, rolling it until I sobbed with overstimulation. "Ride harder, you incest slut—milk Anna's dick with that birth canal, make it yours forever!" He thrust up to meet me, pace brutal, pubic bone grinding my nub with each hilt that sparked lightning up my spine. Climax built swift, cresting in a wail—"Cumming on your cock, kanna!"—pussy convulsing in vise-like ripples, squirting around his pistoning length to drench his abs, but he held me down, forcing me to grind through it, chasing his own edge.

"Turn around—ass to me. Time to claim that virgin hole." The words were a growl, and I complied, dismounting with a wet pop that left me gaping and drooling his precum. Reverse cowgirl now, I reached back to guide him—head nudging my pucker, slick with our mingled juices, the tight ring resisting before yielding with a pop that tore a scream from my throat. "Slow... oh god, it's too big—burns so good!" Inch by torturous inch, he speared my ass, the stretch a fiery bloom that bordered pain, walls clenching desperately around the girth as he bottomed out, balls slapping my pussy lips. The fullness was unholy—deeper than any dream, every nerve alight as he held still, letting me adjust, fingers delving to rub my clit in soothing circles.

Then the rut began: shallow pulls out, then slams home, building to a frenzy that had the bedframe thudding against the wall, my ass rippling with each impact, the obscene squelch of lube-slicked invasion echoing. "Take it, Amma—your son's cock owning this tight ass, turning you into his anal whore!" Pain melted to ecstasy, the angle hitting new depths that had my pussy fluttering untouched, juices dripping down to ease his thrusts. I bounced back to meet him, one hand fisting the sheets, the other mauling my breast—climax ripping through me unbidden, ass clamping his length in spasms that milked him deeper, a fresh squirt arcing from my untouched cunt to splatter his thighs.

He roared then, hips snapping erratically—"Gonna fill your guts, slut!"—and erupted, hot jets flooding my bowels in thick, endless pulses that overflowed, trickling down my crack to mix with my cream. We collapsed in a sweaty tangle, his cock softening inside me, plugging his seed as aftershocks rippled through us. But even spent, he wasn't done—pulling free with a wet schlorp, cum bubbling from my gaping hole, he guided my head down. "Clean your Anna, Amma. Taste our mess." I did, eagerly—lips wrapping the soiled shaft, tongue lapping ass and pussy from his skin, sucking him clean until he twitched back to half-mast.

Rounds blurred after that: missionary on the floor, his weight pinning me as he pounded my pussy to another squirting oblivion, cum creampieing deep; doggy against the wall, ass claimed again while fingers fucked my cunt, dual orgasms leaving me boneless. By dawn's gray light, I lay draped over him, body a roadmap of bites and handprints, his seed leaking from every hole. "You're mine now, Amma—my personal slut, whenever I want." I nodded into his chest, sated and owned, the taboo's thrill a drug I'd never quit. But as sleep tugged, a whisper nagged: Jyothi would return soon. How long before she joined the feast? The family web tightened, and I hungered for its sticky embrace.

Very nice

 

[Mass]

Wonderful update Madam...

Syamala_39

 

[Syamala_39]

Thank you Mass

Wonderful update Madam...

Syamala_39

nk

 

[Syamala_39]

Very nice

Thank you Rajizexy

 

[Syamala_39]

Recape of the story chapter 1 to 15 till date:
In this tale of unraveling taboos, Shyamala, a curvaceous 40-year-old housewife, stumbles upon her fraternal twins—Amar (21, endowed with a commanding 9-inch presence) and Jyothi (21, lithe and fiery)—entwined in raw sibling passion on the family dining table, her voyeuristic arousal igniting an irreversible hunger (Ch. 1). She spies their midnight tryst, fingers buried in her own slick heat as Jyothi dominates Amar with facesitting and cowgirl rides, the wet symphony echoing her silent climax outside the door (Ch. 2). Driven by desperation, Shyamala sneaks into Amar's room while he's rum-drunk asleep, inhaling his musk from discarded boxers, masturbating on Jyothi's bed, then sucking and grinding her soaked pussy along his hardening length until she squirts twice in guilty ecstasy (Ch. 3). Confronted by Amar, who reveals his "Sis Fucker" WhatsApp trove of Jyothi's nudes, Shyamala confesses her spying; he dominates her fully—throat-fucking, tit-fucking, and cumming across her body—sealing her submission as his devoted slut (Ch. 4).

Their bond deepens in a day-long marathon of penetration: Amar strips her nude, licks and fingers her virgin ass before she rides him vaginally, then surrenders her backdoor to his rough claiming, multiple rounds ending with her oral cleanup, addiction to his girth solidified (Ch. 5). While groping and tit-fucking Shyamala in the kitchen, Amar recounts the siblings' origins—Jyothi's video-call fingering leading to her sucking and fucking him post her virginity loss to Mukundh—culminating in a doggy pounding for her as their grandmother witnesses the end, cliffhanger tension rising (Ch. 6). Grandmother's shock turns to silent horror as Amar humiliates Shyamala further, fucking her roughly in front of her—spanking and degrading her as the "family slut"—before she flees, leaving Shyamala's shame laced with thrilling submission (Ch. 7).

After a 10-day break imposed by the grandmother's visit, Shyamala and Amar indulge in an all-day fuck-fest across the house—69, facesitting, anal, cowgirl, shower sex—her embracing rough gangbang fantasies as his "new wife" (Ch. 8). A flashback reveals Shyamala's first cheating: post-childbirth seduction of virgin nephew Askah (19, 8-inch thick), coercing him into oral, 69, and cowgirl while breastfeeding him, weekly sessions forging their aunt-nephew bond (Ch. 9). Interrupted mid-fuck with Amar, Shyamala seduces brother-in-law Sampath (32, 7-inch), orchestrated by Amar: standing vaginal, missionary, anal doggy, with Amar watching and cumming on her face post-climax (Ch. 10).

Shyamala reads Jyothi's diary: her virginity loss to boyfriend Mukundh—blowjob, cunnilingus, missionary—masturbating to the youthful exploits that echo family lust (Ch. 11). Diary continues: Jyothi's first anal with Mukundh—oral prep, slow entry to rhythmic thrusts—prompting Shyamala to experiment anally with Amar, generational mirroring deepening (Ch. 12). Further diary: Mukundh and virgin roommate Ajay blackmail Jyothi into a threesome—blowjobs, DP in positions—Shyamala masturbating with a cucumber, inspired fantasies blooming (Ch. 13). Diary details Jyothi's gangbang by Mukundh and three friends—oral rotations, DP, full group filling with creampies and facials—fueling Shyamala's ride on Amar, him planning to share her (Ch. 14).

Inspired by Jyothi's diary gangbang, Shyamala begs Amar to share her with friends Abhay (Mukundh), Suresh, Satish—all mother-fuckers themselves: throat-fucks, DP, rough rotations cumming inside and on her, frequent visits normalizing her as communal slut, their incest confessions bonding the depravity (Ch. 15).

### Chapter 16: Mukundh's Revenge Sex



The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, its amber rays slanting through the kitchen window to paint the tiled floor in warm, elongated stripes that stretched toward the doorway like fingers reaching for secrets. I stood at the sink, the cool porcelain pressing against my hips as I rinsed a handful of curry leaves under a gentle stream of water, the droplets scattering in tiny arcs that caught the light and sparkled briefly before falling away. My saree draped loosely around me, the cotton soft against my skin, but it did little to quell the subtle warmth building in my chest, a quiet hum that had settled there since morning, stirred by the faint echo of Jyothi's diary pages still fresh in my mind. The house moved around me in its familiar rhythm—my husband rustling papers in the study, the distant clatter of Amar's motorcycle keys on the hall table as he prepared to head out for an evening errand—but my thoughts wandered unhurried, lingering on the way Jyothi's words had captured her body's surrender, the slow yield to hands and mouths that claimed without mercy.

A knock at the front door pulled me from the reverie, soft but insistent, like a pulse against the wood. I wiped my hands on a towel folded neatly over the oven handle, the fabric rough against my palms, and smoothed the pleats of my saree with deliberate care before walking to answer it. The hallway felt longer than usual, each step measured on the cool mosaic tiles, my bare feet silent save for the faint whisper of skin on stone. When I opened the door, Mukundh stood there—Jyothi's boyfriend, or so she called him in her casual mentions over breakfast, his lean frame filling the threshold, dressed in a simple kurta that clung slightly to his shoulders from the day's humidity. His eyes met mine without hesitation, dark and steady, holding a glint that was not quite anger but something sharper, more contained, like a flame banked low beneath ash.

"Shyamala Aunty," he said, his voice even and polite, the formal address carrying a weight that made the air between us thicken just a fraction. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the movement subtle, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as if to steady himself. "May I come in? It's about Jyothi. Something... important." The pause lingered, full and deliberate, and I stepped aside without a word, gesturing him inside with a nod of my head. He entered slowly, his sandals leaving faint prints of dust on the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that echoed in the quiet space. We moved toward the living room, my steps matching his unhurried pace, the saree's hem brushing my ankles with each stride, until we reached the sofa where he lowered himself onto the edge, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced.

I took the chair opposite, folding my hands in my lap, the fabric of my blouse shifting slightly against my breasts as I settled, nipples brushing the cotton in a way that sent a faint, unwelcome spark through me. "What is it, Mukundh?" I asked, my tone calm and measured, each word complete in itself, carrying the concern of a mother who had long since learned to mask deeper currents. He looked up then, his gaze locking onto mine across the low table between us, and for a long moment, he simply held it, as if weighing the words before letting them fall. "Jyothi... she's been distant lately. Avoiding me. And I heard from a friend—someone who saw her at the college fest party last week. She refused the professor's advance. Said no to... everything. But the whispers are spreading. It could hurt her grades, her future."

The revelation settled slow, like sediment in still water, stirring a quiet unease in my chest. I leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking under the shift, my fingers tightening just a fraction in my lap. "She didn't tell me," I said softly, the admission full and honest, laced with the faint edge of worry that mothers carry like a second skin. Mukundh nodded, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with deliberate care. The screen lit up under his thumb, casting a soft glow on his face, and he turned it toward me, angling it so the image filled the space between us—a photo, grainy but clear enough, of Jyothi at the party, her dress hiked high, bite marks blooming red on her inner thighs, a man's hand visible in the frame, possessive and bold.

"She's been... active," he continued, his voice steady but threaded with something darker, each word placed with care, as if testing the ground beneath them. "With others. And now this refusal—it's like she's playing games. I care for her, Aunty. But it stings. Makes me wonder if she's learned it from home." The implication hung there, simple and direct, no accusation hurled like a stone, but implied in the quiet spaces between his sentences. My breath caught then, slow and deep, the warmth in my belly twisting into something sharper, a mix of defensiveness and an unbidden thrill that uncoiled gradual through my limbs. I met his gaze without flinching, my hands unfolding to rest on the arm of the chair, fingers curling lightly over the edge. "What are you suggesting, Mukundh?" I asked, the question full and even, carrying the weight of challenge wrapped in calm.

He set the phone down on the table, screen still glowing with the image, and leaned back slightly, his posture opening as if releasing a held breath. "I'm suggesting... a lesson. For her. And perhaps for you, Aunty—if you've been part of this... education." The words landed soft but firm, each one complete in its intent, and before I could form a response, he rose from the sofa, moving around the table with unhurried steps, his shadow falling long across the floor. He stopped before me, close enough that I could smell the faint spice of his cologne mixed with the day's sweat, his hand extending not in threat, but in invitation—fingers brushing my chin, tilting it up so our eyes locked once more. "Stand," he said simply, the command quiet but unyielding, and I did, rising slow from the chair, the saree shifting against my skin like a second pulse.

His touch lingered on my chin, thumb tracing the line of my jaw with deliberate slowness, then trailed down, fingers splaying over the column of my throat where my pulse beat steady under his palm. "Jyothi refused me once," he murmured, voice low and even, each word drawn out as if savoring the memory. "But you... you'll learn for her. Strip. Slow. Let me see what she's been hiding—what you've been teaching." The air in the room seemed to still then, the fan's whir fading to a distant hum, and my hands moved of their own accord, fingers finding the pallu's edge, drawing it free with measured care. The fabric slipped from my shoulder, pooling soft at my elbow, baring the curve of my breast to the cool air, nipple hardening gradual under his gaze. He watched without rush, eyes tracing the exposed skin as if committing it to memory, his hand sliding from my throat to the swell above my blouse, palm cupping the weight with gentle pressure.

I unhooked the blouse next, buttons parting one by one under my fingers—each click a small surrender, the fabric opening to reveal the lace bra beneath, then falling away completely as I shrugged it from my shoulders. The air kissed my skin, raising faint gooseflesh along my arms, and his fingers followed the path, tracing the strap lines before dipping to the bra's clasp, unhooking it with a flick that sent the garment whispering to the floor. My breasts spilled free, heavy and full, nipples dusky peaks tightening further in the open air, and he cupped one then, palm molding to the curve, thumb circling the peak in lazy spirals that drew a soft inhale from me. "Beautiful," he said, the word simple and complete, his free hand guiding mine to his waistband—fingers brushing the button of his kurta, unfastening it slow. "Your turn. Undress me. Feel what she refused."

My fingers trembled just a little as they worked the fabric, parting the panels to reveal the taut plane of his chest, dark hair scattering across it like shadows. I pushed the kurta from his shoulders, letting it fall, then knelt slow before him—knees meeting the rug soft, hands rising to his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate care, the leather sighing as it released. His pants followed, pooling at his ankles, and I tugged them down, his cock springing free—5 inches but thick as a stout cucumber, veined and curving slightly upward, head flared deep red and already glistening with a bead of precum. It bobbed heavy before my face, the musky scent of him filling my senses, and he tangled a hand in my hair—not pulling, but holding steady, guiding my lips closer. "Taste it," he said, voice even and low, "for her lesson. Suck slow. Show me how a mother teaches."

I parted my lips then, tongue extending to lap the bead from his tip—salty and warm, the flavor blooming on my tastebuds like a forbidden fruit—and wrapped my mouth around the head, sucking gentle at first, tongue swirling the ridge with unhurried laps. He groaned soft, the sound rumbling from his chest, his hand in my hair tightening just a fraction as I took him deeper, lips stretching around the girth, the thickness filling my mouth full but not overwhelming, allowing me to bob with measured depth. Saliva gathered slow, dripping in thin trails down the shaft to coat his base, and I hummed low, the vibration drawing a hitch in his breath, my hands rising to cup his balls—heavy and warm—rolling them gentle in my palms as I sucked.

He let me set the pace for a long moment, eyes half-lidded as he watched, but then his hips shifted forward, thrusting shallow—each push deliberate, nudging the back of my throat without force, the curve of him dragging against my inner cheek. "Deeper now," he murmured, the words full and calm, "choke a little. Let me feel your throat learn." I relaxed my jaw, taking him further, the gag rising soft and wet as he bottomed out, nose brushing his pubes, saliva bubbling around the seal of my lips. He held there for three slow breaths—mine ragged through my nose, his steady—before pulling back, only to thrust again, the rhythm building gradual, each slide slick and measured, tears pricking my eyes from the stretch but spilling slow down my cheeks.

The front door creaked open then, distant but clear, my husband's voice calling out early from work—"Shyamala? Home sooner than expected"—and Mukundh's eyes flicked toward the sound, a slow smile curving his lips as he withdrew from my mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva bridging us briefly before snapping. "Your husband," he said simply, tucking himself away with unhurried care, his hand cupping my chin once more to tilt my tear-streaked face up. "Tell him you're busy. With a guest. And when he leaves again... we continue. For Jyothi's sake." He rose then, adjusting his kurta smooth, and walked toward the door without another word, leaving me on my knees—lips swollen and shiny, pussy throbbing untouched, the taste of him lingering on my tongue like a promise half-kept.

I rose slow, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the rug's fibers clinging faintly to my knees as I straightened my saree, fingers trembling just a little as they smoothed the fabric. My husband's footsteps echoed closer, and I called out steady—"In the kitchen, kanna. Tea?"—the normalcy of the words a thin veil over the heat still simmering in my veins. Mukundh's "lesson" had only begun, slow and deliberate, and as I moved to meet my husband, the ache between my thighs whispered of more to come—for me, for Jyothi, for the tangled web we wove.

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 17: Mom & Daughter's Double Penetration



The evening settled over the house like a soft veil, the kind that draped the rooms in deepening shadows and muffled the distant calls of street vendors winding down their day. I moved through the kitchen with unhurried steps, the wooden spoon stirring the dal in slow circles, the steam rising in lazy curls that carried the warm scent of cumin and turmeric into the air. My saree clung lightly to my skin from the heat of the stove, the cotton brushing against my hips with each measured turn, a subtle reminder of the tenderness still lingering there from the afternoon's quiet indulgences. Amar had left for his evening ride an hour earlier, his motorcycle's rumble fading into the twilight, leaving the space between my husband and me filled with the comfortable silence of routine—him in the study with his ledgers, me tending the pot as if the world beyond these walls held no secrets.

But secrets pressed against the edges of my mind, persistent and warm, like the slow build of rain clouds on the horizon. Jyothi's diary had become my hidden companion these past days, its pages turned in stolen moments when the house breathed easy, each entry unfolding her adventures with a clarity that mirrored my own hidden cravings. Tonight, as the dal simmered to a gentle bubble, my thoughts drifted to the latest words I'd read that morning—her confession of the gangbang, the way she'd described the overwhelming fullness of hands and mouths and cocks claiming her without pause, her body yielding in waves of surrender. A quiet heat stirred low in my belly, unbidden but familiar, spreading through my limbs like sunlight filtering through leaves, warming the space between my thighs where a faint dampness began to gather.

I set the spoon aside, wiping my hands on the edge of my saree with deliberate care, the fabric catching lightly on my palms before falling smooth again. The clock on the wall ticked steady, marking the minutes until dinner, but my feet carried me instead toward Jyothi's room, the hallway stretching long and dim under the single bulb that cast a soft glow on the walls. Her door stood slightly ajar, as it often did these days, a sliver of light spilling out like an invitation unspoken. I paused there, hand resting on the frame, listening to the faint rustle within—the turn of a page, perhaps, or the soft sigh of her settling into her evening rituals. Pushing the door open wider, I stepped inside, the air shifting to carry her scent—jasmine lotion mingled with the faint, clean trace of her soap from an earlier shower.

She lay on her bed, propped against the pillows with her legs tucked beneath her, a sketchpad balanced on her knees and a pencil moving in slow, thoughtful strokes across the paper. The room held the quiet clutter of her world—art supplies scattered on the desk, a half-read novel open on the nightstand, the diary tucked discreetly under the edge of her mattress where I'd replaced it that morning. She looked up as I entered, her eyes meeting mine with that twin spark of curiosity and warmth, her hair falling loose over one shoulder in dark waves that caught the lamplight. "Amma," she said, her voice soft and even, the pencil pausing mid-line as she set the pad aside. "Dinner almost ready? Smells good from here."

I nodded, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight, the sheets cool and smooth against my palm as I smoothed them flat. "Soon, kanna. Just letting it simmer." My words came full and calm, carrying the everyday ease of a mother checking in, but my gaze lingered on her face—the flush on her cheeks from the room's warmth, the way her lips curved in a half-smile that held secrets of its own. She shifted closer, her knee brushing mine through the thin fabric of her nightie, a simple cotton slip that draped loose over her lithe frame, the hem riding high enough to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. For a moment, we sat in that quiet space, the air between us settling like dust after a breeze, comfortable yet laced with the undercurrent of things unsaid.

"You look... thoughtful," she ventured then, her tone light but probing, her hand reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just a second too long against my skin. The touch sent a subtle shiver through me, warm and unhurried, and I caught her hand in mine, holding it there against my cheek, feeling the softness of her palm, the faint callus from her pencil grips. "I was reading something earlier," I said, each word measured and complete, letting the confession unfold slow like the unwrapping of a gift. "Your words, Jyothi. From the diary. The party... the boys. It stirred memories in me, feelings I've kept close."

Her eyes widened just a fraction, the flush deepening on her cheeks, but she didn't pull away—instead, her fingers traced a gentle line down my jaw, resting at the corner of my mouth. "You... found it?" The question came soft, not accusatory, but laced with a curiosity that mirrored the spark in her gaze, her thumb brushing my lower lip in a touch that was almost absentminded, yet deliberate. I nodded, turning my face into her palm to press a slow kiss there, tasting the faint salt of her skin. "This morning. While you were out. I couldn't stop turning the pages—the way you described it all, the fullness, the way your body gave in. It made me ache, kanna. Made me see you... not just as my daughter, but as a woman who knows that hunger."

She exhaled then, a soft sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh, her hand slipping from my face to rest on my thigh, fingers splaying warm through the saree's fabric. The room seemed to draw inward around us, the outside world fading to a distant hum, leaving only the steady rhythm of our breaths syncing slow, in and out. "I wrote it to remember," she admitted, her voice even and full, leaning closer until her shoulder pressed against mine, the heat of her body seeping through our clothes. "The way it felt... overwhelming, but right. Mukundh and the others—they took me apart, piece by piece, and I let them. But Amma... there's more. Marks from that night. Bites, bruises. I tried to hide them, but they're still there."

Her words hung in the air, simple and direct, and she shifted then, pulling the hem of her nightie up with unhurried care, revealing the smooth expanse of her inner thigh where faint purple marks bloomed like shadowed flowers—bite marks, half-faded but clear in the lamplight, the skin around them slightly raised from the pressure of teeth and lips. My breath caught slow in my throat, the sight pulling me closer without thought, my hand rising to trace the edge of one mark with a single finger, feeling the subtle texture under my touch, the warmth of her skin radiating into my palm. "These," I whispered, the word full and hushed, leaning down to examine them closer, my hair falling forward to brush her leg. "From the party? They look... tender."

She nodded, her hand covering mine, guiding my fingers to press lightly against the bruised skin, the pressure drawing a soft inhale from her. "Yes. One of them—Abhay, I think—got carried away. Sucked hard while the others... watched. It hurt at first, but then it felt good. Like a claim." The confession unfolded between us, each sentence complete and unhurried, her eyes holding mine as she watched my reaction, the air growing warmer, thicker, with the weight of what we shared. I traced the mark again, slower this time, my thumb brushing the inner curve of her thigh, feeling the faint quiver of muscle beneath. "Show me more," I said, the request simple and steady, my voice carrying no demand, only the quiet pull of curiosity laced with something deeper, warmer.

Jyothi paused for a long moment, her breath steadying, then she rose from the bed with deliberate grace, turning her back to me as she lifted the nightie higher, bunching it at her waist to bare the full curve of her ass—pert and smooth, but marked with similar shadows: faint handprints overlapping on one cheek, a deeper bite low on the other, the skin flushed pink around the edges. She held the pose, unmoving, the lamplight casting soft highlights along her spine, and I rose to stand behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, my hands hovering for a beat before settling on her hips—palms flat and warm, thumbs tracing the dip where waist met curve. "These too," I murmured, leaning closer, my breath ghosting over her skin as I examined the marks, fingers brushing the raised edges with gentle pressure that drew a soft sigh from her.

"Turn around," I said then, the words full and calm, stepping back just enough to give her space, and she did, facing me now with the nightie still held high, her breasts exposed beneath—pert and full, nipples dark peaks tightening in the open air, a faint red ring circling one from a suck mark half-hidden in the curve. My gaze lingered there, slow and appreciative, before lifting to her eyes, seeing the flush creep down her neck, the way her lips parted on an inhale. "Let me see it all," I whispered, and she released the fabric, letting it fall but making no move to cover herself, standing bare before me in the room's soft light, her body a map of the night's excesses—marks scattered like constellations across her skin, each one telling a story of yield and claim.

I stepped closer again, my hands rising to her shoulders, fingers trailing down her arms in unhurried paths, feeling the subtle gooseflesh rise under my touch. "Does it hurt still?" I asked, my voice even and concerned, one hand lifting to brush the mark on her breast, thumb circling the edge with feather-light pressure that made her nipple tighten further. She shook her head, a small movement, her breath coming a little quicker now. "Not hurt... sensitive. Like it's still there, the memory of it." Her words were complete and honest, and I nodded, leaning in to press my lips to the mark—soft, lingering, the warmth of my mouth against her skin drawing a quiet gasp from her. "Tell me," I said against her, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, "what it felt like. When they marked you. When they took you all at once."

She exhaled slow, her hands coming to rest on my waist, fingers splaying over the saree's fabric as if anchoring herself. "It was... everywhere," she began, her voice steady but laced with the echo of recollection, each sentence unfolding like a breath held too long. "Hands on my thighs, holding me open. Mouths on my breasts, sucking hard enough to bruise while fingers plunged deep inside me, stretching and curling until I couldn't think. Then the cocks—one in my mouth, thick and salty, gagging me slow; another in my pussy, thrusting steady to grind against that spot that makes everything spark; the third teasing my ass, pushing in gradual until I was full, so full it blurred the lines between them." As she spoke, her fingers tightened on my waist, pulling me closer, our bodies nearly touching, the heat between us building like a fire fed one log at a time.

I listened without interruption, my hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts in slow arcs, feeling the weight of them settle into my palms. "And the marks?" I prompted gently, voice full and inviting, leaning in to kiss another faint bruise on her collarbone, lips lingering to taste the salt of her skin. "They came when I came," she continued, her breath hitching soft as my thumbs circled her nipples, rolling them with unhurried pressure. "One boy—Abhay—bit down on my thigh while he fucked my mouth, holding me steady as I choked and swallowed. Another sucked my nipple raw while his cock filled me from behind, the pull sharp enough to sting with every thrust. It was the pain that pushed me over—mixing with the fullness, making the release deeper, wetter, like my body couldn't hold it all."

Her words painted the scene vivid and slow, each detail settling into me like ink on paper, stirring the heat in my core to a steady simmer, my pussy lips parting with a fresh trickle of wetness that dampened my petticoat. I pulled back just enough to look at her, hands cupping her breasts fully now, squeezing with gentle firmness that drew a soft moan from her lips. "You were beautiful in it," I said, the compliment simple and true, my thumbs flicking her nipples once, watching them tighten further under the touch. "Surrendering like that. Letting them mark you as theirs." She nodded, eyes half-lidded, her hands sliding up my back to tug at the saree's pallu, drawing it free with careful fingers until it pooled at my feet. "Amma... touch me. Like they did. Show me how it feels when it's... family."

The invitation hung there, full and weighted, and I obliged without haste—my mouth descending to her breast, lips parting to take the nipple slow, tongue swirling the peak in lazy circles before sucking gentle, the pull drawing a sigh from her that vibrated through me. My hand trailed lower, fingers tracing the line of her hip, dipping between her thighs to brush her mound—soft curls damp and warm, parting to find her slick folds. She was wet already, lips swollen and yielding under my touch, and I stroked slow—one finger gliding along the seam, circling her clit with unhurried pressure that made her hips shift forward, seeking more. "Like this?" I murmured against her skin, pulling back to watch her face, the flush deepening as my finger dipped shallow into her entrance, curling just enough to tease the inner walls.

"Yes," she breathed, the word complete and needy, her hand guiding mine deeper, two fingers now sliding in with a wet suction that echoed soft in the room. I moved them deliberate—curling against that ridge inside, stroking with measured thrusts while my thumb pressed firm on her clit, rolling in slow circles that built the tension gradual. Her free hand tangled in my hair, pulling me back to her breast, and I latched on again—sucking harder now, teeth grazing the peak as her breaths quickened, hips grinding down onto my hand in subtle rhythm. The air grew warmer between us, breaths mingling in the small space, her moans soft and unhurried, each one drawn out like a note held long.

The door creaked open then, slow and unannounced, and Amar stepped in—his eyes taking in the scene without surprise, a quiet smile curving his lips as he closed the door behind him with a soft click. He leaned against the frame for a long moment, watching us—me with my mouth on Jyothi's breast, fingers plunging steady into her slick heat; her head fallen back against the pillows, thighs parted wide under my touch. "Beautiful," he said simply, the word full and appreciative, crossing the room to sit on the bed's edge, his hand coming to rest on my thigh, fingers tracing the saree's hem with deliberate slowness. "Keep going, Amma. Make her cum for me. Let me see how you touch what's mine."

His presence added weight to the air, steady and commanding, and I did—fingers thrusting deeper now, curling with each plunge to stroke that spot inside her, thumb lashing her clit in firm circles that made her body arch, breasts heaving under my mouth. Jyothi's hand tightened in my hair, pulling me closer as her moans grew fuller, breaths coming in long, ragged pulls. "Amma... yes, right there," she gasped, the words complete and pleading, her free hand reaching for Amar, fingers interlacing with his as he leaned in to kiss her—slow and deep, tongue exploring her mouth while his hand slid up my thigh, parting the saree to brush my own damp folds.

The coil in her built visible—thighs quivering under my touch, inner muscles clenching around my fingers in gradual ripples, her body tensing like a bowstring drawn taut. "Cumming," she whispered against Amar's lips, the word drawn out long and low, and it broke over her then—slow and deep, pussy spasming in waves that milked my digits, a hot gush releasing in steady pulses to soak my hand, trickling down her thighs onto the sheets. She shuddered through it, moans muffled into Amar's mouth, body arching off the bed in languid arcs that lingered, aftershocks rippling soft as I stroked her through them, fingers slowing to gentle pets.

Amar pulled back from the kiss, eyes dark as he met mine over her shoulder, his fingers dipping into my wetness now—two plunging deep with unhurried care, curling to match the rhythm I'd set in her. "Your turn, Amma," he said, voice even and full, leaning in to claim my mouth as Jyothi sagged between us, spent but watching with hooded eyes. The night unfolded from there, slow and deliberate—kisses exchanged in turns, hands exploring with measured touches, the three of us tangling in the sheets like threads weaving tight. But as sleep tugged at the edges, a dream stirred in me—Jyothi tied spread-eagle on a bed, five boys circling her, cocks hard and ready, forcing me to watch, then join: kissing her deep while they filled her, my fingers in her pussy as one claimed her ass, shared DP with me riding another's length beside her, our bodies syncing in waves of release until I woke gasping, sheets damp between my thighs, the line between dream and desire blurring forever.