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.
Mother placed the cup of coconut milk alongside the other ritual ingredients and sat down again, adjusting herself as she got comfortable.
My heart pounded in anticipation of what the Guru was going to say. I expected him to mention it to my mother.
The Guru turned to my mother and calmly asked “Behnji, have I ever explained to you the virtues of yoni puja?”
“No, Guru sahib.” She replied, with a confused expression on her face.
“Strange, such a fundamental aspect of puja and I’ve not taught you about it?”
“I know a little about yoni puja but only from conversations with people.”
“So you have never performed yoni puja or had puja performed for you?”
“No, not at all.”
Many of you will be surprised to find that this is a topic of religious conversation. Conversations about yoni and lingam (vagina/vulva and penis/phallus) are nothing abnormal in Hindu religion. You only have to look at the various ornamental statues we have around our very old temples to see that matters of sex and procreation aren’t taboo topics. That’s not to say we openly converse about pussies and cocks. Yoni and Lingam, as words and concepts are somewhat detached from their real world equivalents. We’re able to talk about them without getting giddy, and flushed embarrassed or prudish. Hence my mother, talking about yoni puja (pussy worship) without flinching.
“So, betah Suraj has never performed yoni puja for you?” Guru asked.
“Suraj??” Now mother was a little taken aback. She shifted uncomfortably as she glanced across at me. The mystical concept of yoni puja and its real world ritual undertaking were suddenly making her feel a little bit prudish.
I, at this stage was completely numb to the conversation. From my earlier embarrassment of having been busted for checking out my mother’s fine round ass, to now listening to this surreal conversation about her pussy, was a little difficult to get my head around.
“Well of course, Suraj. Who else will perform yoni puja for you?”
Now don’t get confused readers — our Guru really was talking about me performing a worshipping ritual at my mother’s pussy. Kinky or what? It was for me anyway, I had the beginnings of a raging hard on under my salwaar. For the Guru, this was a serious topic of religious observance. For my mother, it was suddenly a very uncomfortable discussion as was evidenced in the concern on her face and the delightful pink blush in her cheeks.
“But Guru sahib, Suraj is..” Mother glanced again in my direction and swallowed hard as she tried to continue her sentence in hushed tones “…he’s my son.”
The Guru blankly looked from me to my mother. “Behnji, you only have your son to perform this most sacred ritual.” The Guru stated plainly.
Mother bowed her head, seemingly resigned to the Guru’s wisdom. There was that unquestioning obedience once again…
“Behnji, the ritual is very simple and yet very powerful. I shall explain the details to you and you can perform the ritual with Suraj at your convenience. I understand this is a matter of privacy so, please, when you are ready and comfortable.”
The Guru then went through and described in detail how we were to perform the ritual. My mother listened attentively. She seemed to have lost her relaxed posture somewhat as she sat there, nodding as the Guru spoke. She would not look at me at all for the rest of the time the Guru was with us that day.
When the Guru was done, he packed his things and mother escorted him out with a smile. Guru, nodded at me before he left, as he always had as a simple respectful gesture of his departure.
I sat there in the empty prayer room, my mind racing. I hadn’t dared to get up in case either of them caught a glimpse of the huge tent my erection had made in the front of my salwaar. I couldn’t believe what had just been discussed. I desperately wanted to go to my room and jack-off like a mad man but was left in a bit of a muddle. Was I to wait here? Was I supposed to perform puja right now? Was my mother really going to go through with this?
Mother didn’t always perform all of the rituals the Guru taught her — but she did most of them. I could feel my cock throbbing as I considered the sordid prospects. It didn’t matter that she saw it as a purely religious ritual. There was the distinct possibility that I might see my Mother’s pussy and that’s all that mattered to me!
I sat there, trembling in anticipation but my mother didn’t return. Not straight away anyway.
I could hear her tinkering in the kitchen and eventually she came back into the prayer room. I looked up at her and just watched as she walking in, picked up the ritual ingredients and headed back to the kitchen. For a moment my heart skipped a beat as I thought this might be it — this might be my moment — but it wasn’t to be.
I felt deflated as I heard her return everything to the kitchen. She still hadn’t looked at me, not one glance in my direction. I sensed she was feeling very embarrassed and no doubt apprehensive about undertaking the yoni puja ritual.
I got up and shuffled quickly to my room, rubbing my aching cock through my salwaar. Once inside I jacked off furiously and unloaded a huge wad, relieving my aching balls as I allowed my mind to wonder, and fantasize, and hope and pray that Yoni puja was one ritual my mother would not pass up.