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

[Syamala_39]

MOM'S MOUTH, SIS'S THROAT: SON'S LOAD.
### Chapter 1: Mom Watches Her Son & Daughter Fucking



It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, the kind where the sun filters through the curtains in lazy golden streaks, casting long shadows across the living room. I, Shyamala, a 40-year-old housewife with a curvaceous figure—36-30-36 measurements that still turned heads at the market—had just finished folding the laundry. My husband was away on one of his endless business trips, leaving the house unusually quiet. Or so I thought.






Our fraternal twins, Amar and Jyothi, both 21—Amar the elder by mere minutes, with his broad shoulders and mischievous grin, and Jyothi, the spitting image of me in her youth, all lithe curves and sparkling eyes—had been acting strange lately. Whispers behind closed doors, lingering glances over breakfast. I chalked it up to their close bond, the kind only twins could share. But deep down, a mother's intuition nagged at me.

I was in the kitchen, wiping down the counters, when I heard it—a muffled giggle from the dining area, followed by a soft thud. Curiosity piqued, I tiptoed closer, my heart pounding inexplicably. The door was ajar, just enough for me to peek through without being seen. What I witnessed froze me in place, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.

There, on the polished teak dining table—the very one where we shared family meals—were my twins, locked in an act so forbidden, so primal, that my world tilted on its axis. Amar, shirtless and jeans pooled at his ankles, had Jyothi bent over the edge, her sundress hiked up to her waist, panties dangling from one ankle. Her legs were spread wide, and Amar's hands gripped her hips like vices, his 9-inch cock—thick, veined, and glistening—thrusting into her with a rhythm that spoke of practiced urgency.



"Oh, Anna... fuck me harder," Jyothi moaned, her voice a husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. Anna—brother in Tamil, the endearing term she'd always used for him. But this... this was no sibling affection. Her breasts, full and bouncing with each slam, spilled out of her unbuttoned top, nipples hard as pebbles. Amar's face was a mask of raw lust, sweat beading on his forehead as he pounded deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely in the room.



I should have burst in, screamed, stopped them. But my feet were rooted, my body betraying me with a rush of heat between my thighs. My saree suddenly felt too tight, the cotton brushing against my hardening nipples. I watched, transfixed, as Amar pulled out slowly, his massive shaft—9 inches of throbbing meat, slick with her juices—twitching in the air. Jyothi turned, dropping to her knees without a word, her eyes locked on his. She wrapped her lips around the head, sucking greedily, her tongue swirling as she took him deeper, gagging slightly when he hit the back of her throat.

"Fuck, Jyothi... your mouth is heaven," Amar groaned, threading his fingers through her hair, guiding her bobs. She hummed in response, the vibration making him buck. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with the precum leaking from his tip. My hand, unbidden, slipped under my saree, fingers brushing my damp panties. I bit my lip, horrified at myself, but unable to stop. The sight of my daughter's lips stretched around her brother's cock—it was wrong, so utterly taboo, yet it ignited something feral in me.

Jyothi pulled back with a pop, strings of spit connecting her to him, and stood, pushing Amar against the table. She climbed onto it, straddling him in a standing fuck, her back to his chest as she impaled herself reverse-cowgirl style. "Yes, Anna... fill your sister's pussy," she begged, grinding down, her ass cheeks rippling with each descent. Amar's hands roamed—squeezing her tits, pinching her nipples—while he thrust up, matching her pace. The table creaked under them, dishes rattling from the force.

I leaned against the doorframe, my fingers now circling my clit through the fabric, breaths coming in shallow pants. Why was this turning me on? They were my children, twins bound by blood, yet here they were, fucking like animals in heat. Jyothi's moans grew louder, her body arching as Amar's cock stretched her wide—9 inches disappearing into her slick folds with every plunge. "I'm gonna cum... oh god, Anna, make me squirt!"

He flipped her then, laying her on her back across the table, legs hooked over his shoulders. Missionary now, but savage—long, deep strokes that had her nails raking his back. "Take it, little sis... your brother's cock owns this pussy," he growled, and she whimpered in agreement, her heels digging into him. Faster, harder, the obscene squelch of her arousal filling the air. And then it happened—Jyothi's body convulsed, a gush of fluid squirting out around his pistoning shaft, soaking the tablecloth. She screamed his name, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

Amar wasn't far behind. With a guttural roar, he pulled out, fisting his massive dick as ropes of thick cum erupted, painting her face—splattering her cheeks, lips, even her open mouth. She licked at it eagerly, swallowing what she could, the rest dripping down her chin onto her heaving breasts. "Mmm... brother's special milk," she purred, scooping a finger through it and sucking it clean.

They collapsed together, panting, kissing lazily as if it were the most natural thing. Amar's cock, still semi-hard and glistening, nestled against her thigh. Jyothi traced patterns on his chest, whispering, "We have to be careful, Anna. Mom could come home any time."

I backed away silently, my own orgasm crashing over me in the hallway—fingers soaked, saree clutched in my fist. Horror washed over me as the aftershocks faded. What had I just witnessed? What had I just done? My twins, my beautiful, inseparable Amar and Jyothi, entangled in incestuous bliss. And me... aroused beyond reason.

That night, as I lay in bed, the image replayed endlessly. The way Jyothi's body yielded to him, the raw possession in Amar's eyes. My hand wandered again, guilt twisting with desire. Little did I know, this was only the beginning—the crack in the facade that would shatter our family into something deliciously depraved.

 

[Syamala_39]

Mass

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 2: Siblings' Midnight Sex Adventure



The days after that shattering Saturday melted into a fragile veneer of routine, each one laced with the sharp tang of unspoken secrets. Mornings brought the sizzle of dosas on the tawa, the clink of steel tumblers filled with filter coffee, and small talk that skimmed the surface like oil on water. But under it all, I simmered—restless, raw, my body a live wire humming with the afterimages of what I'd seen. Those stolen moments replayed in stolen glances: Amar's hips snapping with feral precision, Jyothi's body arching in surrender, the glistening evidence of their union splattered like abstract art across her skin. Guilt was my constant shadow, pricking at me while I kneaded chapati dough or folded laundry, but it warred with a darker hunger, one that left me flushed and fidgety, thighs pressing together against the insistent throb.

By night, the house transformed into a labyrinth of temptation. My husband's snores from the master bedroom were a mocking lullaby, his presence as distant as his trips. I'd lie awake, the ceiling fan's monotonous whir doing nothing to stir the humid air clinging to my skin like a lover's breath. My nightie, a whisper-thin cotton slip, rode up as I shifted, exposing the curve of my hip, the soft inner flesh of my thigh. Sleep was a tease, always just out of reach, until the pull became too strong—my hand slipping beneath the hem, fingers tracing lazy circles over the damp lace of my panties, dipping into the slick heat that betrayed me nightly. But friction alone couldn't quench it; I craved the real thing, the symphony of flesh and forbidden whispers.

It was deep into a humid Wednesday night—past 1 AM, the neighborhood lulled into silence broken only by the occasional bark of a street dog—when fate dangled the bait again. A distant clatter at the front gate yanked me from my half-doze: keys fumbling in the lock, followed by a low, whiskey-slurred curse. Amar. He'd vanished earlier with his rowdy engineering friends, all boasts and backslaps over beers at some dingy Marina Beach shack. "Home by ten," he'd promised with that disarming grin, but the wall clock's red digits sneered 1:47, mocking my worry. Maternal instinct should have propelled me forward—to scold, to tuck him in with a glass of water and a lecture on moderation. Instead, a shiver of illicit excitement coiled in my belly as I slipped from the sheets, nightie fluttering against my thighs, and crept to the hallway shadows.

Through the kitchen's half-open door, I watched him stagger in, the scent of cheap liquor and tobacco wafting ahead like a herald. His t-shirt clung damply to the ridges of his abs, jeans sagging low enough to tease the dark trail of hair vanishing into denim. He moved with that loose, predatory grace, eyes bleary but sharp, zeroing in on the faint glow seeping from under Jyothi's door like a moth to flame. "Anna?" Her voice slithered out, soft and sultry, laced with that intimate lilt that twisted my gut. The door creaked wider, framing her in the lamplight: a sheer babydoll nightie that skimmed her thighs like mist, lace cups translucent against the swell of her breasts, the hem riding high to hint at the shadowed cleft below. Barefoot, hair tousled from feigned sleep, she crooked a finger—beckoning, commanding—and he crossed the threshold without a word, the door clicking shut with deceptive finality.


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Retreat should have been my salvation, a silent slip back to the marital bed and feigned ignorance come dawn. But addiction has no mercy. My pulse thundered as I glided down the hall, pressing my ear to the flimsy plywood of her door—twin sanctuary turned trysting den. The latch hadn't caught fully; a sliver of golden light beckoned through the gap, wide enough for one eye, a thief's vantage. The air inside hummed with tension, thick as the pre-monsoon haze: Amar's back to me as she pounced, nails raking his shoulders, yanking his shirt off in a frenzy to bare the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest. She shoved him onto the bed, the springs protesting with a low groan, and mounted his lap in a straddle that pressed her core against his stirring bulge. "Missed you out there, Anna... missed feeling you throb inside me," she breathed, grinding slow and deliberate, the fabric barrier doing nothing to mute the wet friction, her nightie hiking to expose the undersides of her ass cheeks.



His hands—those strong, veined hands I'd seen bruising her hips—clamped her thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he bucked up once, testing. "Prove it, Jyothi. Ride your brother's face until you're shaking, drown me in that hot, sister-slick pussy." The words were gravel and fire, booze-sharpened, and she laughed—a husky ripple that vibrated through the wood to my core—before obliging.




She crawled up his body like a panther, knees bracketing his ears, hovering her heat just above his mouth. Through the crack, I glimpsed her folds: puffy, glistening in the lamplight, a pearl of arousal beading at her entrance like dew on a forbidden bloom. The scent hit me then, faint but potent—musky sweetness undercut by salt, curling into my nostrils and tightening my nipples to aching points.

She descended with a sigh that bordered on a sob, smothering him fully, hips rolling in languid circles that smeared her essence across his lips and chin. Amar's groan was muffled, animalistic, his tongue erupting in assault: broad laps from taint to clit, delving into her clenching entrance to scoop her nectar, then flicking rapid-fire at the swollen nub that made her jolt. "Yes—fuck, Anna, eat me like you own this cunt, because it's yours, all yours," she gasped, hands fisting the headboard, body undulating faster, the bed creaking in rhythm with her grinds. Wet, slurping sounds filled the room—his mouth a vacuum of suction, tongue spearing deep before retreating to circle her rim teasingly, drawing whimpers that escalated to keens. Her thighs quivered, inner muscles visible in the strain, juices trickling down his jaw in shiny trails he lapped greedily, humming vibrations that bucked her higher.



Outside, my restraint fractured. Back pressed to the wall, nightie rucked to my waist, I delved into my panties—fabric sodden, clinging like a desperate plea. Fingers parted my slick lips, one plunging knuckle-deep into the velvet heat, curling to stroke that sensitive ridge while my thumb assaulted my clit in frantic orbits. The cool draft from the hall kissed my exposed skin, heightening the risk: one errant noise, one slip of the door, and I'd be exposed—mother turned peeping slut, fingers buried in her own dripping shame. But the danger only fueled it, my free hand muffling my pants, hips canting subtly to chase the building coil.

Jyothi shattered first, her body bowing like a reed in wind—"Anna! Cumming—oh god, drink it all!"—a fresh flood gushing over his face, her squirt arcing in hot spurts he caught on his tongue, swallowing with guttural moans. She slumped forward, spent but insatiable, dismounting with a wet pop that left him glazed from forehead to throat, lips parted and swollen, eyes feral as he licked her clean. But she wasn't done; spinning on the sheets, she presented her ass—cheeks spread by her own hands, revealing the dusky pucker above her still-twitching slit. First, though, she freed him: zipper rasping like a promise, his jeans shoved down to unleash the beast straining against cotton briefs. She peeled them away, and there it was—rigid, curving skyward, the head flaring angry red, a thick vein pulsing along the underside like a live wire.



"Mmm, look at you... drunk and dripping for your sister," she cooed, nuzzling his heavy sac, inhaling deep before her tongue traced the seam, lapping at the wrinkled skin. One ball drawn into her mouth, sucked with gentle rolls that hollowed her cheeks, then the other, her hand fisting the shaft in lazy twists, thumb circling the slit to smear his leaking precum. Amar's head thrashed on the pillow, a hiss escaping—"Worship them good, sis... now lower, tongue that ass like the nasty twin you are." She complied with a wicked hum, her tongue dipping to rim his tight ring—circling, probing, thrusting shallowly as he spread wider, knees hooked high. The sounds were pornographic: wet laps, his grunts, the faint schlick of her fist pumping him in counterpoint, building him to a razor's edge.

My rhythm synced, fingers plunging deeper—two now, then three—stretching my walls in echo of what she'd take soon, pussy fluttering around the invasion, a trickle of my own arousal snaking down my calf. The coil wound tighter, breaths ragged against my palm.

Rising like a goddess of vice, Jyothi shed her nightie in a fluid shrug, baring every inch: breasts heaving with dusky nipples begging for abuse, belly taut, mound a neat thatch framing her swollen sex. She straddled him fully now, cowgirl's throne, rubbing his tip through her folds—teasing the notch until it caught, her hips teasing a shallow dip before slamming down. "Ready to wreck your sister's hole, Anna? Fuck me until I'm raw, leaking your seed for days." The descent was exquisite agony: her lips blooming around his girth, inner pinkness straining white, a creamy ring forming at the base as she bottomed out with a shared cry. She rode like tempests—hips pistoning, ass slapping his thighs in wet smacks, breasts jiggling wildly as his hands mauled them, thumbs flicking nipples to stiff peaks.

"Ride it harder, you incestuous little whore—milk brother's cock with that greedy twin pussy," he snarled, spanking her cheek with cracks that echoed, reddening the flesh. The bedframe joined the fray, thudding against the wall in Morse code of their frenzy. Jyothi's pace stuttered, climax clawing close—"Doggy now, Anna—breed me like your bitch!"—and he obliged, flipping her onto hands and knees, ass high, pussy gaping and drooling. He mounted in one savage thrust, all 9 inches vanishing to the hilt, balls swinging to tap her clit. Gripping her hair like reins, he yanked back, arching her as he hammered—deep, bruising strokes that had her pillow-muffled screams fracturing the night: "Ruin me! Fill your sister!"

I crested with them, a silent implosion—walls clamping my fingers in vise-like spasms, a keen bitten back as hot release squirted onto my palm, thighs quaking against the wall. Inside, Jyothi shattered again, her gush soaking his pistoning length; Amar roared, yanking free to fist himself, erupting in volcanic ropes—thick jets striping her back, pooling in the curve of her spine, trickling down her crack to tease her clenching hole.

They tangled in the aftermath, whispers fading to sighs, bodies slick and sated. I withdrew on jelly legs, tasting my essence on my fingers as I fled—salt and sin, a sacrament of my unraveling. The hunger grew, a beast unchained. How long before it devoured me whole?

 

[Mass]

Wow...super beginning...and this is "just the start"...btw, the pics are also very good...

Syamala_39

 

[Syamala_39]

Wow...super beginning...and this is "just the start"...btw, the pics are also very good...

Syamala_39

Thank you Mass

 

[Rexd]

Wow! Amazing story telling

 

[Syamala_39]

Wow! Amazing story telling

Thank you Rexd

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 3: Desperately Tasting Son’s Dick



The weight of those midnight sins pressed on me like a lover's body in the humid dawn, heavy and unyielding, as I moved through the house like a ghost in my own life. By day, I was the picture of maternal poise—stirring rasam on the stove, the steam curling up to veil my flushed cheeks, or ironing Amar's shirts with hands that trembled at the memory of his grip on Jyothi's hips. But the facade cracked at every turn: a glimpse of his broad back as he lounged on the sofa, scrolling his phone, would send a illicit spark straight to my core, my saree suddenly too tight against the swell of my breasts, the petticoat whispering against thighs that slickened without warning. Jyothi, too, was a walking torment—her laughter tinkling like wind chimes as she helped with the dishes, her salwar clinging to the curve of her ass in ways that conjured visions of it rippling under his thrusts. I avoided their eyes, burying myself in chores, but the nights... oh, the nights were my undoing, a descent into fevered dreams where I was the one bent over that table, his massive length splitting me open while she watched, urging him on.

It had been five days since that hallway climax, five days of building pressure that left me raw and aching, my husband's perfunctory missionary rutting the night before doing nothing but highlight the void—his soft grunts a pale echo of Amar's guttural roars, his hurried release a dribble compared to the volcanic ropes I'd seen painting Jyothi's skin. I woke that Friday morning with sheets twisted around my legs, my nightie damp at the crotch from another solo frenzy, fingers still curled as if clutching phantom girth. The house stirred slowly: Jyothi off to her graphic design classes by auto, chattering about a group project with that boy Mukundh—her "ongoing boyfriend," as she coyly called him, though I suspected from her flushed cheeks it was more than study sessions. My husband, ever the early riser for his sales calls, pecked my forehead and vanished into the bathroom, leaving me alone with the coffee's bitter steam and a restlessness that clawed at my insides.




Amar emerged late, as was his habit on off-days, stumbling from his room in nothing but loose boxer shorts that tented scandalously at the front—evidence of morning wood or perhaps a dream of his twin's mouth. "Morning, Amma," he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep, ruffling my hair as he brushed past to the fridge, his bare chest inches from my face, the faint scent of his musk—clean sweat and youthful vigor—hitting me like a drug. I nodded mutely, stirring my filter coffee to hide the way my nipples pebbled against my blouse, a fresh gush warming my panties. He grabbed a mango from the fruit bowl, devouring it with juices dribbling down his chin, then announced he was heading out—cricket with the boys at the maidan, back by evening. Relief warred with disappointment as the door clicked shut behind him; the house echoed emptily, my husband already gone for his weekend conference in Coimbatore, Jyothi texting from the road about grabbing lunch with friends.

By noon, the isolation was a siren call. The laundry hamper in the bathroom mocked me, Amar's discarded boxers from yesterday peeking out like a taunt—faded blue cotton, stained faintly at the crotch with the ghost of his essence. I shouldn't. God, I shouldn't. But my feet carried me there anyway, the door locking with a soft snick that sounded like surrender. Kneeling before the basket, heart hammering like a dhol at festival, I fished them out—warm still from the dryer, the fabric soft and worn from countless wears. Bringing them to my nose, I inhaled deeply, a shudder ripping through me: the heady cocktail of his maleness, salty and earthy, undercut by the faint tang of dried cum and sweat from whatever solitary sins he'd indulged in. It was intoxicating, forbidden nectar that flooded my senses, my free hand slipping under my saree without thought, fingers pressing against the sodden gusset of my panties, rubbing frantic circles over my throbbing clit.

"Oh, Amar... what are you doing to your Amma?" I whispered to the empty air, the words a broken prayer as I ground the fabric against my face, tongue darting out to taste the faint salt on the seam where his cock had nestled. Visions assaulted me: his 9-inch beast, thick and veined, twitching as Jyothi sucked him; the way it stretched her lips, her throat bulging. My fingers plunged deeper, parting my slick folds, two digits curling inside to stroke that aching spot while my thumb lashed my nub. The hamper became my confessional, other clothes spilling out—Jyothi's lacy thong tangled with his, a visual punch that had me moaning aloud, hips bucking against my hand as I imagined them tangled in her sheets, his seed leaking from her as she licked him clean. Climax built swift and savage, my walls clenching in waves, a hot spurt soaking my palm—but it wasn't enough. The hunger gnawed deeper, demanding more than echoes.

I fled to Jyothi's room then, the door ajar like an invitation, her bed unmade—a rumpled paradise of pink sheets and scattered pillows scented with her floral body lotion and something muskier, lingering from their last tryst. Collapsing onto it, the mattress dipping under my weight, I hiked my saree high, petticoat bunching at my waist, panties shoved aside as I spread wide—legs splayed like a wanton offering, one foot planted on the floor for leverage. The mirror across the room caught my reflection: cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, blouse gaping to reveal the deep cleavage spilling over my bra, nipples dark shadows begging for torment. "This is wrong... so wrong," I gasped, but my body betrayed the lie, pussy lips swollen and parted, clit engorged like a ripe berry, inner thighs glistening with arousal that dripped onto her sheets—marking her bed with my shame.

Fingers delved again, three now, stretching my channel with wet schlicks that filled the room, my other hand mauling my breast through the fabric, pinching the nipple until it throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. Fantasies unspooled: Amar bursting in, eyes darkening at the sight of his mother defiling his sister's sanctuary; him pinning me down, that massive cock—god, so thick, so long—thrusting into me without mercy, claiming the womb that birthed him. "Fuck your Amma, kanna... stretch me like you do Jyothi, fill me with that hot cum," I babbled to the empty room, hips grinding up to meet my plunging hand, the squelch obscene and echoing. Jyothi's pillow muffled my cries as the coil snapped—orgasm crashing like monsoon waves, body convulsing, a gush of squirt arcing onto the sheets, soaking the fabric in my tangy release. I rode it out, fingers trapped in my spasming heat, tears streaking my face from the intensity, the guilt a sweet afterburn.

But the fire banked, not quenched. Evening crept in with the call to prayer from the mosque down the street, shadows lengthening as I tidied my mess—sheets stripped and bundled for the wash, my body scrubbed in a hurried shower that did nothing to cleanse the craving. Amar returned as dusk bruised the sky, reeking of sweat and turf, his laughter booming as he kicked off his shoes. "Amma, I'm starving—any biryani left?" Dinner was a torture: him devouring plate after plate, oblivious, while I picked at mine, gaze flicking to the way his throat worked swallowing, imagining it bulging with something far thicker.

Night fell like a curtain, the house settling into quiet. My husband called once—static-laced promises of return by Sunday, love yous that rang hollow. I paced my room, the clock ticking past eleven, then midnight, insomnia a cruel bedfellow. A thirst gnawed—not for water, but for the forbidden sip I'd denied myself. Padding to the kitchen for a pretense of tea, I heard it: the front door's faint groan, then silence. Peering out, I saw Amar's silhouette against the streetlamp—stumbling again, bottle in hand this time, the sharp bite of rum wafting as he fumbled his keys. Another night out, cut short by overindulgence. Maternal duty stirred, but so did the serpent in my blood.

He made it inside, weaving toward his room with a mumbled "Night, Amma," collapsing onto his bed without undressing—jeans unbuttoned, shirt rucked up to bare his abs, boxers tented from whatever dream chased him home. The door stood ajar, a reckless oversight, and I hovered in the hall, heart a war drum. Go back. Turn away. But the pull was magnetic, drawing me into the dim glow of his bedside lamp, the air thick with his scent—sweat, rum, and that underlying musk that had haunted me since the hamper.

He was out cold, breaths deep and even, chest rising in hypnotic rhythm. My knees hit the carpet beside the bed, eyes tracing the bulge straining his fly—outlining the impossible length, the flare of the head pressing against cotton. Trembling, I reached out, fingers brushing the zipper—cool metal that warmed under my touch. "Just a look... just once," I lied to myself, tugging it down inch by inch, the teeth parting like a confessional. His boxers followed, peeled back to free him: even flaccid, it was a monster, heavy and thick against his thigh, the foreskin soft and veined, balls nestled in a thatch of dark curls. But as the cool air kissed it, it stirred—twitching, thickening, lengthening before my eyes into rigid glory, the head blooming purple and slick with a bead of precum that welled like a tear of temptation.

I leaned in, breath ghosting over it, the heat radiating like a furnace. The scent enveloped me—pure, potent maleness, salty and heady, making my mouth water, pussy clench emptily. No more fantasies; this was real, inches from my lips. "My boy... my beautiful, sinful boy," I whispered, tongue flicking out to lap that pearl—salty-sweet explosion on my tastebuds, a flavor that hooked me like opium. Emboldened, I wrapped my lips around the head, sucking gently, tongue swirling the ridge as it hardened fully in my mouth, stretching my jaw, the veins pulsing against my inner cheeks. He groaned in sleep, hips shifting minutely, but didn't wake—lost to the rum's embrace.

Greed took over. I bobbed shallowly, taking more—half his length now, gagging softly as it nudged my throat, saliva pooling and dripping down the shaft in glossy trails. My hand fisted the base, pumping in tandem, the other delving under my nightie to my aching core—fingers plunging into the sopping heat, matching the rhythm of my sucks. The fullness in my mouth was divine, the taste of him flooding my senses—precum leaking steadily, which I swallowed like ambrosia, humming vibrations that made him twitch deeper. "So big... tastes like heaven, kanna," I murmured around him, popping free to lick the underside from balls to tip, tonguing the frenulum until his sac tightened, drawing up in warning.

But I craved more—union, not just oral worship. Rising on shaky legs, I straddled the bed's edge, hiking my nightie, panties tugged aside to bare my dripping sex. Positioning over him, I grasped his slick shaft—god, so hot, so rigid—and rubbed the head through my folds, coating it in my cream, the friction on my clit drawing a whimper. Then, slowly, torturously, I sank down—not fully, just the tip breaching my entrance, stretching my lips around his girth like a glove too tight. "Yesss... fill Amma's pussy," I breathed, grinding in shallow circles, taking another inch, then two, the burn exquisite as he parted me wide, bottoming against my cervix with a fleshy nudge that sparked stars behind my eyes. He stirred again, a sleepy moan escaping, but his eyes stayed shut—body responding on instinct, hips canting up once, twice, as if dreaming of Jyothi's heat.

I rode him like that—careful, controlled rolls of my hips, his cock spearing deeper with each descent, my walls clenching greedily around the invasion, milking him with rhythmic squeezes. My clit ground against his pubic bone, fingers digging into his chest for leverage, nails leaving faint crescents on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching me to the brink, every vein dragging against my sensitive inner flesh, the head kissing depths untouched in years. Sweat beaded between my breasts, trickling down to pool where our bodies joined, the wet schlick of my movements a filthy underscore to my gasps. Climax built like a tidal wave, crashing first—my body seizing, pussy fluttering in violent spasms around him, a muffled cry bitten into my lip as I squirted hot and fierce, soaking his balls and the sheets below. But I didn't stop; grinding through the aftershocks, chasing more, the overstimulation sharpening every sensation until the second wave hit—deeper, shattering, tears streaming as I convulsed again, inner muscles rippling in ecstasy that bordered pain.

He bucked once more in his stupor, a low groan rumbling from his chest, but held back—his release denied, cock throbbing untouched inside me. Panic flickered then, mingled with sated bliss; I lifted off with a wet pop, his shaft springing free, glistening with my juices, still rigid and denied. Tenderly, I tucked him away, zipping him up with shaking hands, pulling the sheet over his form like a merciful veil. He slept on, oblivious, a faint smile curving his lips—perhaps chasing the dream I'd gifted him.

I fled to the bathroom, collapsing against the sink, staring at my reflection: lips swollen and shiny, eyes wild and glassy, thighs slick with mingled evidence of our sin. The taste of him lingered on my tongue, a brand I couldn't rinse away. Twice I'd cum on his cock—my son's cock—without his knowing, grinding like a desperate whore in the night. Horror should have consumed me, but as I touched myself once more under the cold spray of the shower, fingers circling lazily, all I felt was the spark of inevitability. The dam had cracked wide; soon, it would burst, flooding us all in its wake.

 

[Syamala_39]

### Chapter 4: Becoming My Son’s Slut




The morning after my midnight violation dawned sticky and unrelenting, the sun clawing through the curtains like an accusation. I stirred in sheets that smelled of guilt and jasmine soap, my body a map of aches—thighs tender from their spread, lips still tingling with the phantom stretch of his girth, core hollow and throbbing with the echo of those two shattering climaxes. I'd barely slept, replaying the sin in feverish loops: the salty burst on my tongue, the exquisite burn as he filled me inch by forbidden inch, my squirts soaking his unwitting form. What mother does that? What depraved shadow of myself had emerged from the rum-scented dark to grind on her son's cock like a street-corner harlot? Yet, as I rose to brew the filter coffee, the horror twisted into a low, insistent hum of want, my saree brushing nipples that hardened at the mere thought of his morning stretch, the casual ruffle of his hair.

Breakfast was a minefield of normalcy. Jyothi chattered about her college fest, eyes sparkling over idlis as she texted Mukundh under the table—Mukundh, that lanky boy with the easy smile, her "ongoing" flame who I now eyed with a pang of vicarious envy, wondering if he stretched her like Amar did. My husband shoveled rasam rice with one eye on his phone, oblivious as ever, his goodbye kiss landing on my cheek like a duty fulfilled. And Amar... oh, Amar sauntered in last, fresh from a shower that left his skin glowing, towel slung low on his hips until he vanished into his room to dress. "Morning, Amma. Smells amazing," he said, voice casual, but his gaze lingered a beat too long on my blouse, where the cotton gaped slightly over my cleavage. Did he know? Had some dream-fragment surfaced in his rum-fogged mind, a vague sense of wet heat and rhythmic clenches? I busied myself with dishes, palms slick not from soap, but from the fresh dampness between my legs.

The day dragged, a tapestry of distractions: market runs where aunties gossiped over brinjals, the autorickshaw's jolts that rubbed my thighs together until I bit back a whimper. By afternoon, the house emptied—Jyothi to a study group, husband to his office grind—and solitude wrapped around me like a noose. I retreated to the living room sofa, legs tucked under my saree, hand wandering unbidden to the heat pooling there. But the front door rattled before I could delve deeper, keys turning with purposeful clicks. Amar. Home early from his part-time coding gig, backpack slung over one shoulder, his t-shirt clinging to the fresh sweat of the bus ride. "Amma? You okay? Look like you've seen a bhoot."



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His concern was a knife—innocent, yet laced with that knowing glint in his eye. I stammered something about the heat, rising too quickly, saree pallu slipping to bare the curve of my shoulder. He stepped closer, close enough for his scent to envelop me—clean soap and underlying musk, the same that had flooded my mouth hours ago. "You've been acting weird since last week. Sneaking around at night, peeking through doors... or did you think I wouldn't notice?" My blood iced, then boiled. He knew. Not the grinding, god no—but the spying, the hallway shadows where I'd panted to their rhythms. "What... what do you mean, kanna?" I whispered, voice cracking like dry earth.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbing open WhatsApp with a smirk that curled my toes. "This group. 'Sis Fucker'—private, just me and Jyothi. For sharing... mementos." He tilted the screen toward me, and there it was: a gallery of sin, thumbnails blooming like poisonous flowers. Jyothi, my girl, posed shamelessly—nude in our bathroom mirror, breasts thrust forward, nipples pinched between her fingers, caption: *Anna's tits to tide you over.* Another: her on all fours in his room, ass arched high, pussy lips parted by her own fingers, glistening, with *Come claim your sister's hole tonight?* scrawled below. Videos too—a short clip of her on her knees, lips wrapped around his length, bobbing with slurps I recognized from the door crack, her eyes watering as she gagged: *Missing your throat, slut sis.* My knees buckled, hand flying to my mouth, but not in horror—god help me, in a rush of scalding arousal, my pussy clenching emptily, juices soaking through my panties to dampen the petticoat.


"You... you've been doing this under my roof," I breathed, but it came out half-moan, eyes glued to the screen as he scrolled to a fresh pic: Jyothi post-fuck, thighs spread, his cum leaking from her stretched folds, her fingers scooping it to taste with a wink. Amar's laugh was low, dark, stepping closer until his chest brushed my arm, heat radiating like a promise. "And you've been watching, Amma. Every thrust, every squirt—fingering yourself like a desperate aunty in heat. I heard you that night, panting outside Jyothi's door. Smelled you, even—wet and needy." Shame burned my cheeks, but so did desire, my nipples straining visibly against the blouse, breath hitching as his free hand ghosted my hip. "Confess it. Tell me what you want, or I'll show these to Appa. Let him see what a whore his daughter is... and what a pervert his wife."

The threat hung, but it was the hunger in his eyes—the same feral possession I'd seen claiming Jyothi—that broke me. "I... I watched you both. On the table, in her room. It was wrong, kanna, but I couldn't stop. Your cock... so big, so powerful. I touched myself, came so hard thinking of it inside me." The words tumbled, a dam bursting, my hand clutching his shirt, feeling the hard planes beneath. "Last night... when you were drunk, I... I tasted you. Sucked you while you slept, ground my pussy on you until I came twice, soaking you with Amma's juices." His eyes darkened to obsidian, phone forgotten as it clattered to the floor, his hand shooting to my throat—not squeezing, but holding, thumb tracing my pulse. "You filthy slut. My own Amma, creeping like a thief to steal her son's dick. You want it for real now? Want Anna to fuck his mother's mouth, paint her like he does his sister?"

"Yes," I whimpered, the confession a key unlocking chains, body sagging against him as his grip tightened just enough to spark stars. "Use me, Amar. Make Amma your slut." He didn't hesitate. With a growl that vibrated through his chest, he shoved me to my knees on the living room rug—hard tiles biting my skin through the saree, but the pain was a thrill, grounding the whirlwind. His hands fisted my hair, yanking my head back to meet his gaze, then down to his zipper. "Unzip me, whore. Worship the cock that birthed you." Trembling, I obeyed, teeth grazing the tab, pulling it down to free him: already rigid, springing forth like a cobra, 9 inches of veined fury, head flared and weeping, balls heavy below. The scent hit me—fresh, potent, the same I'd lapped from his boxers—and I lunged, mouth watering, but he held me back. "Beg for it."

"Please, kanna... let Amma suck your big cock. I need it stretching my throat, choking me with your precum." Satisfied, he thrust forward, the head breaching my lips, salty tang exploding on my tongue as I hollowed my cheeks, sucking greedily. He didn't ease in—hips snapping, fucking my face with brutal rhythm, the girth stretching my jaw to aching limits, veins dragging against my inner walls as he hit the back of my throat. Gags bubbled up, saliva cascading in frothy rivers down my chin, soaking my blouse to transparency, but I took it—eyes watering, mascara streaking, humming vibrations that made him curse in Tamil. "Fuck... Amma's mouth is tighter than Jyothi's. Deeper, slut—swallow your son's dick whole." Halfway in now, then more, my nose brushing his pubes as he held me there, balls against my chin, throat convulsing around the invasion until black spots danced in my vision. He pulled back only to ram again, pace relentless, free hand mauling my breast through the wet fabric—pinching the nipple until I keened around him, the vibration bucking his hips faster.

Tears streamed, mixing with spit and precum, but ecstasy bloomed low—my pussy a sopping mess, clenching around nothing as I reached under my saree, fingers plunging into the flood to match his thrusts. He noticed, yanking my hand free with a snarl. "No touching. This is for me—my mother's holes to use." Dragging me up by the hair, he spun me, bending me over the sofa arm—saree hiked high, petticoat and panties yanked down in one rip, ass bared and quivering. But he didn't take me there; instead, he straddled my back reverse, his slick cock nestling between my heaving breasts, still spilling from the blouse he'd torn open. "Titfuck your son's cock, Amma. Squeeze those udders around me like the cow you are." I obeyed, hands cupping my heavy globes, pressing them together to envelop his length—the heat searing my skin, veins pulsing against my sternum as he thrust through the valley, head popping free to slap my chin with each slide. "Yes... fuck Amma's tits, kanna—cum on them, mark me as yours."

The friction was divine—his precum lubing the channel, my nipples scraping his abs on each upthrust, the degradation fueling the fire until I was grinding air, desperate for release. He sped up, grunts animalistic, balls slapping my cleavage—"Gonna paint you, slut... brother's cum for his Amma-whore"—and then he reared back, fisting himself furiously over my upturned body. The first rope erupted hot across my face—striping my cheek, splattering my open mouth with thick, salty jets I swallowed hungrily. More followed: glazing my neck, pooling in the hollow of my throat, then arcing to my breasts, ropes draping my nipples like obscene jewelry, dripping down my belly to tease my navel. The final spurts hit my saree, staining the silk forever. "Mine," he panted, smearing the mess across my skin with his softening tip, dipping it to my lips for a final suckle. "All mine now. Jyothi's got her brother-fucks; you've got your son-slut duties. Understand?"

I nodded, dazed and dripping, tongue lapping cum from my lips as I knelt before him, body humming with unspent need—but sated in submission, the power imbalance a balm to my fractured soul. "Yes, kanna... Amma's your slut. Use me whenever." He pulled me up, kissing me deep—tasting himself on my tongue—before tucking himself away with a possessive grin. "Clean up before Jyothi gets home. And tonight? We continue." As he sauntered off, phone in hand to text his sister a new pic—me, perhaps, glazed and grinning—I collapsed onto the sofa, fingers finally diving into my ruined core, chasing the orgasm he'd denied. The floodgates were open; our family teetered on the brink of delicious chaos, and I, the architect of its fall, craved every drop.

 

[kirantariq]

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