Incest An Indian Mother's Debauchery

[cuckravi]

NOTE:- Im a new writer but i promise my stories will make your dick hard , the themes were inspired by various and numerous stories iv'e read but stories dont like copy pasted so stay tune and have fun updates are promised and i wont leave the story in middle



Part 1: The cage of control



i’m aditya, just hit 18, and my life’s a bloody prison. stuck in a shoebox flat in mumbai with my mom, radhika, who’s got the looks of a bollywood goddess but the iron grip of a jailer. she’s 36, a milf in every sense—curves that could make any desi uncle drool, always draped in saris with deep-cut blouses and her navel winking like a taunt. married off as a child, she’s played the loyal wife to perfection, or so i’ve always assumed. i’ve had a stupid crush on her since i was old enough to notice, but i’d never act on it. that’s just twisted reddit memes and insta incest jokes messing with my head late at night—dark humor i scroll through to escape the hell of my reality.

ma’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a shard of glass. “aadi, beta, where are you going now? no roaming around!” she’s in the kitchen, stirring dal, her pallu slipping just enough to show skin i force myself not to stare at. she calls me ‘aadi’ with a mix of affection and command, but i’m suffocating under her rules. no friends over, no late nights, no damn freedom. i can’t even breathe without her permission. i hate her for it—hate her to my core. she’s my mother, though, so what can i do? just grit my teeth and nod like a puppet.

“ma, just stepping out for a bit,” i mutter, already knowing the answer. her kohl-lined eyes narrow as she adjusts her bindi, stepping closer with that look of suspicion.

“no need for ‘stepping out.’ sit and study. your board exams are near, samjha?” her tone’s final, a verdict with no appeal. my fists clench behind my back, but i swallow the rage. if only dad were here more often to take some heat off me. he’s in pune for his job—some middle-management gig at a factory—only dragging himself home on sundays like a weary ghost. when he’s around, ma eases up a tad, playing the perfect wife while he barely grunts two words to me before crashing on the couch with a beer. his name’s vikram, mid-40s, paunchy and perpetually tired. i don’t hate him like i do ma, but there’s no warmth there either. just a stranger who shares my blood and shows up weekly to remind me how little he cares.

“fine, ma,” i grumble, slinking back to my room. inside, my phone’s my only escape—scrolling through forbidden fantasies online while resentment festers like a monsoon drain.

---

**part 2: the tainted brotherhood**

my one rebellion is feroz, my mate and the school watchman. he’s a rough bastard from the slums, dark-skinned with muscles like a street fighter, a few years older than me. i call him ‘bhayya,’ he calls me ‘chhota,’ and we’ve got a bond forged in secrets. ma despises him—says he’s trash with his beedi stink and sly grins. she’s constantly on my case to ditch him. “aadi, that boy will ruin you. stay away!” she snapped just last week, her voice sharp as a tailor’s scissors. i lied straight to her face, “he’s nice, ma, just misunderstood.” truth is, feroz is trouble, but he’s my ticket out of her chokehold, even if it’s into darker pits.

he got me hooked on drugs—started with a drag of something bitter, then pills that made the world blur sweet. now i’m an addict, nicking cash from ma’s purse to fund it while feroz plays supplier. we keep it hush; if she found out, she’d chain me to the bedpost. we also swap videos—grainy clips of prostitutes he’s banged, laughing over their bodies like cheap critics while high out of our minds. he’s got a thing for ma too, always drooling over her. “chhota, teri maa toh priyanka chopra se bhi sexy hai,” he’ll say with a smirk that hides dirtier thoughts. it irks me, but i let it slide. can’t afford to lose my only ally against ma’s tyranny.

last sunday, dad was home, slumped in his usual spot watching cricket reruns. ma fussed over him like he’s some maharaja while throwing me glares to behave. “vikram ji, tell aadi to focus on studies,” she urged, serving him chai. dad barely looked up, mumbling, “haan, ladka, padh le.” that’s the extent of his parenting—two words before he zones out again. sundays are just another cage, only with an extra guard who doesn’t give a damn.

---

**part 3: the veil of betrayal**

yesterday was supposed to be a score night—feroz and i planned to grab some stuff from his dealer behind the school grounds. but he flaked last minute over a static-filled call. “kal karenge, chhota. aaj kuch kaam hai,” he rasped. kaam at 10 pm? bollocks. suspicion gnawed at me like a street dog on a bone. ma’s control already had me on edge; now feroz was hiding something? screw that. i decided to tail him.

“ma, staying at vikas’s for group study tonight,” i lied through clenched teeth, pulling on a hoodie. her eyes drilled holes into me from the living room where she was folding laundry—dad’s shirts from his last visit still lingering with his cheap cologne.

“aadi, no nonsense. call if anything’s wrong, samjha? and be back by 11!” her voice was a whip, tightening the leash even when i’m escaping. hate surged hot in my chest—i wanted to scream that she’s not my warden—but instead, i nodded like a beaten pup and slipped out.

i followed feroz to school under cover of night, mumbai’s sticky air clinging to me as crickets chirped their mockery. the place was eerie, empty except for a faint light leaking from the storeroom window near the back gate. heart hammering like a dhol at holi, i crept close and peered through the filthy glass.

what hit me was worse than any of ma’s lectures. feroz stood there, grinning like a jackal who’d trapped dinner. across from him was miss sneha, our english teacher—30, slim as a model, always in transparent sari or sexy chudidars that scream for attention.

now, though, she was a wreck—tears carving tracks down her face, hands shaking as she faced him. feroz waved his phone menacingly, showing her something that made her choke back a sob. blackmail, no doubt. fury flared—not ‘cause he was screwing with miss sneha, but ‘cause he kept this from me. we’re brothers in filth; how dare he hide this game?

“please, feroz, don’t do this,” she begged, voice fragile as spun sugar. his laugh was pure malice, stepping closer till she flinched.

“chup kar, madamji. yeh video viral kar du kya? strip abhi.” his command was vile, and i watched, rooted by some sick fascination as she hesitated before peeling off her pallu with quivering fingers. emotions warred in me—rage at feroz’s secrecy, disgust at myself for not turning away, and a creeping heat i loathed admitting. she knelt when ordered, kissed his grimy feet while whimpering softly. then it got uglier—he made her serve him with her mouth, yanking her hair, slapping her till her cheeks bloomed red. no condom, just raw dominance as he took her against the storeroom wall, her muffled cries drowned by his animalistic grunts.

i should’ve barged in, smashed his face for treating her like garbage. but nah, i stayed glued, breath fogging the glass, torn between anger and a twisted thrill i didn’t want to name. finally couldn’t stomach more—stumbled home at 1 am, legs wobbly as a newborn calf.

---

**part 4: the descent into shame**

“aadi, yeh kya waqt hai ghar aane ka?” ma was up, sari creased from waiting, worry warring with irritation on her face. seeing her like that after what I’d witnessed made guilt sting worse than ever—even through my hatred.

“sorry, ma, got held up at vikas’s. project stuff,” i mumbled, dodging her gaze. she sighed heavily, too drained to grill me further tonight.

“bas jao ab. kal baat hogi.” her tone softened just enough to twist the knife of shame deeper as I trudged to my room. sleep was a distant dream—my mind replayed miss sneha’s degradation on loop, mixed with flashes of ma’s suffocating control. needing to clear my head, I hit the bathroom for cold water on my face. that’s when I saw it—ma’s bra dangling on the rack, black lace mocking me against the white tile. harmless laundry, right? wrong. after tonight’s filth, something in me cracked wide open.

before reason could kick in, my hand snatched it up. warm from her body still, soft as sin itself. then my traitor brain did the unthinkable—painted ma into miss sneha’s place. radhika kneeling in a torn saree, eyes pleading like I’ve seen in nightmares I’d never admit to… NO WAY. self-hatred roared even as desire did too. couldn’t stop—gripped that fabric tight and let the vile fantasy consume me till release slammed hard. then reality crushed me flat. this wasn’t some edgy meme; this was me being a sick bastard.

threw the bra back like it burned me, scrubbed my hands raw under freezing water till they ached more than my soul—if I’ve even got one left. crawled into bed drowning in loathing, praying sleep would wipe this night clean.






hey guys comment if you mant me continue and also visit my another story " https://xforum.live/threads/indian-wife-descent-into-depravity.186793/ "

 

[December]

Nice update

 

[Whocarez]

Please conyinue

 

[cuckravi]

the fallout of filth



i’m sinking in a pit of guilt after last night’s fucked-up moment with ma’s bra. sleep was a damn joke—my head kept replaying miss sneha’s humiliation at feroz’s hands in that storeroom, mixed with ma’s controlling bullshit that i hate to my fucking core.


next morning, i’m a wreck heading to school, still shaken from my own sick thoughts. feroz is by the gate, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a pissed-off glare. something’s wrong. “chhota, everything’s fucked, bhenchod,” he snaps, kicking dirt with his worn slippers. his voice is raw, anger spilling over.



“what happened, bhayya?” i ask, gut already twisting. he lights a beedi, hands trembling, and spills the shitty news.



“principal found out. my drug business—someone ratted me out. watchman job’s gone as of this morning. what the fuck do i do now, madarchod?” his eyes burn with rage, but there’s a flicker of desperation too. feroz, the tough slum guy with muscles like steel, looks shattered for once. i’ve never seen him this low—my only escape from ma’s prison, now screwed by some snitch. guilt and anger churn in me; we’ve been dealing drugs on the side for months, getting high behind school grounds while i steal cash from ma’s purse to keep the habit alive. if she knew, she’d beat me senseless.



“damn, bhayya, we’ll sort something out,” i mumble, though i’ve got no fucking idea how. he just nods, puffing smoke like it’s his last lifeline. but before we can dwell on it, something else is gnawing at me worse than his job loss. last night’s storeroom scene. i can’t keep it in.



“bhayya, one thing… i saw it last night. you with miss sneha in the store. what the hell was that?” my voice is low, tense as shit. his eyes narrow for a split second, then a sly grin creeps back.



“chhota, you saw? damn, that was personal revenge. sneha slapped me in front of the whole school once—fucked with my respect. so i fucked with hers.” he leans in, voice dripping with nasty pride. “got a technician buddy to install a camera in her bathroom. got her naked on video. then blackmailed her to come to school that night. all planned.” he pulls out his cheap phone, scrolling to show me the filth—clips of miss sneha bathing, water sliding over her slim body, completely clueless. then another video—him banging her raw in that storeroom, her cries mixing with his grunts as he slaps her ass red. my dick stirs despite the anger; i’m a fucked-up bastard for getting hard over this.

“let’s talk this evening, bhayya,” i manage, voice thick. he claps my shoulder hard before letting me head to class, emotion rough in his tone.



“chhota, my brother, i’m not hiding shit from you. just planning a surprise. you’ll get it tonight.” he winks, cryptic as hell. i’m confused as fuck but say nothing, just nod and drag myself to class, mind racing.





the lustful haze



english period comes around, and there’s miss sneha at the front of the classroom. she’s wearing a damn sexy sari today—silky red with a low-cut blouse clinging to her tits just right, pallu slipping to flash hints of skin. after last night and those videos, i can’t see her the same way. my mind’s a fucking sewer—picturing her stripped bare again, bent over the desk while i take what feroz did. her voice drones on about some poem, but all i hear are her whimpers from that storeroom. i shift in my seat, dick straining against my pants, hating myself for wanting her this bad after seeing her broken. class ends, and i’m out fast, needing air before i snap.

after school, i find feroz near the back gate. he’s still brooding over his job loss but cuts me off before i can say a word about miss sneha or anything else. “chhota, today you get your surprise. you’ll become a real man,” he says with a dark grin, eyes glinting like he’s holding some fucked-up trump card.



“what do you mean, bhayya?” i start, but he shushes me quick.



“just shut up and come with me.” he drags me to his beat-up bike, and we speed off through mumbai’s sweaty streets. the ride’s rough as hell, and soon i recognize where we’re headed—that abandoned factory from his prostitute videos. the grimy shithole where he fucks whores and films it for kicks. “why’d you bring me here?” i ask, voice on edge as we pull up to the rusted gates.



“shhh, chhota. put on this mask first,” he orders, tossing me a cheap black cloth mask from his bag. reluctance eats at me—this feels seriously fucked—but curiosity and that dark loyalty to feroz win out. i slip it on, hiding my face as he leads me through creaking corridors to a dimly lit room deep in the factory’s guts.



there she is. miss sneha, in that same damn sari from class, looking shocked and scared shitless. her eyes dart between us, hands shaking as she clutches her pallu tight. feroz grins wider than a fucking predator. “chhota, this is your gift for our friendship. go claim it,” he says low, not using my name to keep things anonymous. my heart’s pounding—part horror, part raw lust. i hesitate, frozen in place.



“please… let me go. whatever i did, forgive me,” sneha pleads, voice cracking like brittle glass, tears welling up. feroz steps closer to her, tone turning cold as ice.



“madamji, this is just the start. make chhota happy, or I’ll show those videos to everyone, bhenchod.” then he turns to me, softer but firm. “chhota, this is your chance. be a man. we’ll take her together—no tension.” his words push past my doubt; lust crashes over me like a fucking wave after seeing her videos and that sari all day.



i step forward slow, mask hiding my shame as much as my face. sneha backs up till she hits the wall, sobbing now. “no, please, I’ll do anything but not this…” but her words fade under the roar in my head. feroz grabs her arm rough, yanking her pallu down so her blouse strains against those perfect tits. “shut up, randi,” he snarls, ripping at the fabric till it tears open, exposing her bra and quivering skin.



i’m gone now—dick throbbing so hard it hurts. grab her other arm while she struggles weakly, pinning her between us. tear off more of that sari till it’s just shreds on the filthy floor, her curves bare under flickering factory light except for flimsy lingerie. “fuck, bhayya, she’s hotter up close,” i mutter through the mask, voice hoarse as hell. feroz laughs dirty, already undoing his pants.



“yeah, chhota, now let’s tear into this chut together.” he shoves her down to her knees hard; she’s crying full-on now but too scared to fight much. he forces himself into her mouth first while i grope at her tits through the bra, ripping it off so they spill free—full and fucking gorgeous. pinch those nipples till she whimpers around him, then switch spots ‘cause I need that wet heat too. push into her lips rough while feroz slaps her ass raw from behind, prepping to take her there next—no mercy, just pure animal need driving us both.



we flip positions again; lay waste to every inch of her on that grimy floor over what feels like hours—maybe minutes lost in haze feels longer—taking turns pounding into every hole without giving a fuck about condoms or her broken sobs echoing off rusting walls until we’re spent messes panting over trembling flesh beneath us stained by sweat, cum, tears all mixed together in depravity’s aftermath...



“bhayya… I want more,” I rasp out finally, catching breath, still hungry somehow despite sickness creeping back post-high lust fog lifting slightly revealing what monsters we became tonight together bonded by filth beyond repair now probably forever...



feroz laughs loud, slapping sneha’s tear-streaked cheek sharp enough the sting echoes too. “you’ll come here every day at this time, got it, randi? tell anyone and I’ll make your videos viral, madarchod.” she nods weakly, utterly defeated, as we pull masks tighter, leaving marks of conquest behind...







the bitter unraveling



days crawl by in a fucked-up haze of guilt and sick thrills. feroz and i keep dragging miss sneha to that abandoned factory every evening after school, using her like our personal whore. we’ve got her locked down with threats—if she breathes a word, those videos of her getting railed go viral. each time we do it, the disgust in me grows like a goddamn cancer, but the lust and power trip with feroz keep pulling me back. it’s like we’re brothers bonded by this filthy shit, tighter than ever, even as i loathe myself for it.



then, out of nowhere, shit explodes. one morning, word spreads through school like wildfire—miss sneha resigned. just up and quit, no explanation, leaving english classes with some substitute drone. students are whispering, clueless as fuck about why she’d bail so sudden. i’ve got a bad feeling in my gut, like this ain’t random. my mind’s racing—did she crack under the pressure of what we did? or is something worse coming?



the very next morning, it gets uglier. feroz corners me outside the school gate, looking like he’s been hit by a fucking truck. his face is pure rage, darker than i’ve ever seen. “chhota, that bitch sneha took her revenge! she fucking snitched to the principal—handed over proof of my drug business. my job’s gone for good now, madarchod!” his voice shakes with fury, eyes burning as he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for me to catch. “one day, i’ll make her pay for this, kutiya. i swear.”



i stand there, stunned, a mix of anger and dread churning inside. sneha played her card—dropped a bomb on feroz after what we put her through. part of me gets it; we fucked her life up. but loyalty to feroz wins out—he’s my only escape from ma’s suffocating cage. “we’ll get through this, bhayya,” i say, voice hollow. he just nods, still seething, plotting god-knows-what in that twisted head of his.