** This is a work of fiction. It contains absolutely no truth -- even the bits that sound plausible. Any references to Hindu culture, creed and religion are entirely fictitious, and I'd like to apologise in advance for my gross misrepresentation I've made. The characters in this story are not based on any real persons, nor is the story based on any real events. It's a story people, enjoy it for it is. **
** This story is about incest between an Indian mother and her son -- both of whom are adults. If you don't like this subject matter, move along. **
** Hindi is not my first language so please forgive my poor use of Hindi grammar and vocabulary. I've tried to have the characters speak in both Hindi and English to give them some authenticity while trying not to alienate English speaking readers. I'm not sure it works, perhaps you can be the judge**
** Finally, please take the time to leave comments on what you thought. I welcome all constructive criticisms. Praise works nicely too.**
My name is Suraj. I'm a 22 year old call centre worker in Mumbai. You've probably heard from me -- my other name is George and I can put on a very dodgy English accent. I'm the one that calls you late on a Sunday night and tries to sell you a mobile phone. You should buy one, they really are very cheap!
OK, joking aside, this story is about me and my mother. More importantly it is a story about how my mother and I, crossed that forbidden barrier imposed in all familial relations and began engaging in a live of rampant debauched sex. Interested? Read on...
My mother, Kaushalya, is a buxom and curvy woman of 40. She is slightly tall for an Indian woman of her age and time, standing at roughly 5' 4" inches. She married at 17 and had me at 18. Unfortunately her husband, my father, died from natural causes very soon after I was born. I don't have any real memories of my father, my only reference point to him is the picture of him hanging on the sitting room wall and of the various stories mother and other relative have told me about it. Mother continues to hang a fresh garland of flowers over that picture once a week. She's traditional like that.
Even though the world has moved on, she's managed to keep her old Indian ways. We have a computer at home which she's never touched. We have a TV that she can't control and a power shower unit that she can't operate. She wears traditional Indian garb such as sarees and salwaar kameez suits and even keeps her hair in a tight Indian bun with and industry-standard middle parting. Her one vice, I guess you could say, is that she dies her hair black. Except I'm not meant to know that. Nobody is. And now you don't know that either, got it?
Like all Indian mothers she makes fantastic Indian food. Except we don't really call it 'Indian food' here, we just call it food. Good honest, home cooked, spicy food. She also takes care of me, her son. From the day of my birth and all through my 22 years, my mother has been nothing but attentive to me and my needs. To be blunt, she has nothing else really. I am her whole life.
OK, that's bit of a lie. My mother has one other obsession in her life -- religion. My mother is a devout Hindu woman. She observes as many rituals as she can and seems to fast every other day for some reason or other. I myself am Hindu -- a reluctant Hindu shall we say. I'm really in it just for her. She takes this all so seriously and it's kind of rubbed off on me. I don't think I could survive at home if I didn't roll over and play the devout Hindu son routine.
I love my mother; she's been my whole life for, well, my whole life. But my feelings for her had become, confused, shall we say. I'm not sure when or how it happened but for a long time I'd been having strange thoughts about her.
You know the kind of thoughts.
Initially they were thoughts of affection. Imagining just being close to her. Hugging her. The thoughts became fantasies. Daytime fantasies. Long, night time fantasies. Wide-smiling fantasies. Cock-hurting, furious-masturbating, grunting fantasies.
Yes, THOSE kind of fantasies.
My mother has been the object of my lust for years now -- since puberty probably. I certainly don't remember a time when I didn't have lustful thoughts about her. I watch her when she's not looking at me. I stare at her big bosoms, her wide hips, her exposed abdomen under her saree -- when she wears one.
She doesn't know it of course. She's blindly unaware that harbouring in her home is a twisted, horny-as-hell son who would do anything to screw her into next week.
Nope, she just blissfully goes about her daily routine of praying, cooking, housekeeping, cooking, housekeeping, praying, sleeping, praying, etc etc.
Just to emphasise how seriously my mother takes religion, we have a Guru that comes to our house on a weekly basis. He and my mother sit down in the little prayer room we have and talk endlessly about scripture, rituals, dos and don'ts. I say they talk; it's more him that does the talking. My mother really just sits there in awe of him, hanging on his every word as if they were kind of divine revelation. Not that I have much faith in divinity.
I myself am sceptical -- some of the stuff he comes out with is just everyday common sense and others just sound like mystical mumbo jumbo. But to my mother, it's all profound wisdom.
It's that devotion to his every word that changed everything for my mother and I. That, unquestioning, naïve willingness to believe everything that came out of her Guru's mouth was how her son eventually found his way into her mind, her heart and her sweet, gorgeous pussy.
Like with most things in life, it all happened with a careless lapse of concentration and a great deal of luck.
********
It was Sunday and mother and I were in the prayer room listening to one of Guru's sermons. He was explaining something about cows. Or horses. Or something. I don't know, I switched off to his claptrap a long time ago. I'm only there because I couldn't find a good reason not to be -- not one my mother would believe on a Sunday morning anyway.
As usual Mother sat in blissful serenity and listened to him, nodding along in agreement with him, rocking slightly in a meditative fashion. She would occasionally turn to me and I would nod back at her, dumbly validating everything the Guru said. I was happy enough letting her feel I was taking it in. These sessions with the Guru were as much for my benefit as hers, or so she thought.
Some time during the sermon, mother realised she'd forgotten the coconut milk -- a necessary part of one of the rituals she was learning to perform. She excused herself and climbed onto her feet to head to the kitchen. As she did so, she had her back to me and I got a delicious eyeful of her saree covered ass, swaying as it did from side to side as she walked. My eyes didn't stray from their target, even as I watched her head out of the room and down the corridor to the kitchen, I kept watching her. It's only when I turned away that I realised the Guru had been watching me.
I tried to act nonchalant, but you know how it is. When you're trying to act innocent, all you manage to do is look guilty. It didn't help that he had a blank expression on his face as he fixed me with his stare, giving me no clue as to what he was thinking. For a moment I was scared. Then confused. Then really scared as my mother came back into the room.
