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Their Invincible Love - Ch. 02

On her majestic bed, Diksha is sitting, her back across a pillow against the headboard, one tapered leg reaching the middle of the king-size bed, the heel of her right leg touching the rear slope of her left hip, her right knee bending, spreading her hungry loins for her son's lustful eyes.

She is emanating an aphrodisiac scent of sex, sweat, perfume, and voracity. Her arousal, still subdued with two orgasms, whispers in her womb the sweet names of her son, calling him brother again and again. A perverse excitement hits on those of her nerves whose tips end in the walls of her vagina. Her healthy clitoris hisses the heat of an autumn dog into her labia and the outer folds of the labyrinthine slit of her maternal cunt. Anticipation is building up inside her heart and brain, which directs a flow of her essence along the warm channel of her motherhood.

He likes to fuck me as his sister, she thinks. What if he knows the truth, knows that I am not his sister, I am his mother.

"Will he still fuck me with such passion?' she asks herself.

Rohan enters the room, naked, steered by the obstinacy of his erect manhood, two drinks in his two hands. His mother's sprawled body evokes a wild flower whose forest breeze revives a dead man's nerves. His mother smiles at him, partly to conceal the blush that pricks her earlobes. He stares at her elongating nipples; a small wave of lemon juice jumps out of one of the glasses in his hands. He hands the glass to her and sits beside her extended leg.

Diksha is thrilled by Rohan's erect manhood. "My brother is too, too horny today," Diksha whispers into his right ear, swallowing the last gulp of the lemon juice, Rohan has sweetened with honey.

She has forbidden sugar in her household. She has many plans to keep them healthy and sexy. One upward thrust on her sensitive, maternal clitoris with Rohan's sturdy tongue makes her want to live the entire century and frolicking with her post-mature bastard son.

She extends her delicate left hand like a class one whore, slips it over her son's masculine shoulder, feels the goose-bumps of desire explode out of him as the wisps of her armpit, pregnant with her feminine scent, scrape his shoulder. She draws her son closer with the might of her maternal extremity, the tip of her middle finger slides on his invisible left nipple, down and up, down and up.

Diksha's finger on his nipples makes Rohan's balls spasm. He has a rare moment to know how she feels when he touches her more sensitive nipples.

"Sonny's small nipples are as favorite to mommy as mommy's big ones to sonny," she whispers into his right ear, entering into the intriguing maternal role-play.

Mention of her nipples by herself into his ear produces a lake of saliva inside Rohan's masculine mouth. He loves in her, in his sister, everything, but her nipples have an amount of extra appeal, partly because they are long and smooth, and partly because of the way she offers them, putting them into his mouth as if it is a baby's, and whispering, "eat mommy's milk".

'She is my sister, but she is old enough to be my mother.' Rohan's sexuality inflates by her maternal role.

Rohan is thirsty, but not for the lemon drink. He puts the glass on the side table and slumps down for a spell of worship. He touches her left shoulder with the tip of her tongue, glides his oral digit downward, and reaches two beautiful wrinkles the root of her hand forms where it joins her torso.

Diksha knows what is going on. As if out of shame, as if he is going to open a part of her secret feminity, her arm tightens against her body. But with naughty and powerful licking of her son, the arm soon loses its strength to remain stiff. Rohan pushes his pig's tongue right across the sexy wrinkles and flattens the semi-damp wisps in her generous armpit. Rohan's convulsive mouth forces out all the saliva it has produced lately, as if to bath and purify the feminine hair in the semi-sacred place of his desire.

Her son's saliva runs down her torso, reaches the base of her left breast. She loves the kinkiness, but she loves more his son's hunger for the creases and curves of her body.

Rohan's sturdy tongue duels with the weak hair of his mother's armpit, washes them as his mother deserves to be washed to be present as the queen for a banquet, and prepares the drink for his sexual appetite with his dribble and the salt that has gathered for three days under her arms. Extending his chest, Rohan drinks profusely from his mother's fountain he artificially created under her arm with his kinky adoration to his enjoyment.

Diksha feels her left armpit has just come. But she knows this is only the beginning of carnal voracity of his omnivorous youth which will play with her body for the next millennium without a pause. As his satisfied tongue, now more invigorated with the blessing of her secret nourishment, reaches the middle-base of her left breast, Diksha's maternal left nipple shakes like the tongue of a snake. Her anticipation reaches peak where she fears that her son's wicked tongue will burn this very sensitive micro outpost of her feminine profusion.

Time has played cruel games with the vulnerable mother of forbidden sacrifice that she is worth for. After many sinful moments, Rohan reaches the nut of her left nipple and chews on it without mercy, but knowing very well how his sister feels, like a live fish on a frying pan, when he sucks her nipples.

After twenty minutes, Diksha is still being tortured on her both nipples. In the meantime, at least ten times he has tried to take the entirety of each of her mature breasts in his ambitious mouth but these maternal gourds are much bigger than what his wide oral cavity can devour. And no mention of their forbidden sweetness, and aphrodisiac scent they make with his spit.

Nothing Diksha loves more when her son tries to devour one of her breasts. His powerful mouth puts such a sucking force on her blood across the healthy leather of her taut breasts that it seems the sheer strength draws her cunt's fluid upward, but as soon as his mouth releases the sensitive gourd, her ripe cunt weeps like an abandoned princess. But Rohan is relentless in his eating his mother's breasts.

Her son's voracity sends electric signals from her breasts to every tip of her body. Waives of healthy slime rush from her womb to her vagina. Her prodigious clitoris knots and un-knots maddeningly, feeling neglected, crying for a touch, which she doesn't dare to lend because she hates the pause a sudden orgasm will intervene with, and which he cannot because he is so much busy with his mother's supple, enticing breasts.

Diksha wants to ward off the climax by thinking intimate things. Like many intimate moments of carnal love, she swallows her pain to tell Rohan that he is really her son, that he is biting his mother's nipples, gobbling his mother's breasts, not his sister's as he knows. But she doesn't reveal the truth, not because that it will upset him, which she is sure will not be the case, because she has carefully prepared Rohan for facing up to the reality one day and her allowing him fucking her is the culmination of that preparation. But she does not like the pause the reality will intervene with, as she does not like the pause at this moment a devastating orgasm can intervene with.

But climax is not all about it. Climax she likes most, but no less she likes this intimate raping of her maternity by her virile son.

Her body is, however, not in her control, it is under his. She can only try. Her need to cum is very intense. But her need to be ravaged is more urgent. She tries to disorient her lusty maternal sexuality with a more serene, romantic role. She holds her son's worshipping head with all the might she can master, draws it up to her face, looks into his befuddled countenance with maternal fire. But his loving eyes extinguishes the fire of lust in her eyes, she draws his mouth closer, and kisses him intimately like a robust elder sister. The game produced the desired result. Her soul gets the peace of the romantic elder sister who is head over heels in love with his naïve younger brother. As a playful stupidity, she takes his right hand in her loving ones, takes them to his destiny, puts it assertively on her sprawled groin, his middle finger dabbed into the seam of her feminine core. Her intention is to show him how much secretion he has produced by ravishing the beauty of her breasts.

"See Rohan, what've you done' to your sister," she said looking into his eyes. And slipping the base of his palm from her rosy asshole, his four outer fingers reaching the outer ridges of her pubic forest, his middle finger boiling inside her illustrious cunt, his entire palm drowned in the flood that his love for the forbidden sexuality of her ripe feminine charms has drawn out from the well of her delicate soul.

Her fiery maternal desire to be fucked by her son is subdued now. She is now his elder sister, to be fucked by her romantic brother, like a new bride, like an eternal lover. His finger is letting her sisterly cunt know what the wild snake of his virile cock with all its emotional venom can do to its slushy walls at the height of its forbidden hunger.

"Do you know that your sister's speech made the day in the Conference?" Diksha says. She looks at Rohan and blushes like a young sweetheart. "Do you know, brother?" she demands again with a hoarse, purring voice. "Do you?"

"Yes, Diksha, I know," he says.

"If you really know, then reward me by fucking, my bastard brother."

He loves when she calls him a bastard. It gives him some sort of legality to fuck her, whom he knows as his sister, who is, in fact, more than that, who is his mother.

"Do you want to fuck this early, Sister?" Rohan says. "I haven't taken care of my sanctuary yet."

Listening to her son speaks of his sanctuary, all the strands of Diksha's lush pubic hair stand like the spines of a hedgehog, and makes a symbolic sanctuary for her vulnerable son between her golden thighs.
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