Marinating the "Meat"

She was like a young fruit, of maybe the passion fruit plant, waiting to be had; her long, hard, pink nipples visible through the sheer chiffon of her blouse. The shiny strings of the blouse stitched by my wife, her mother-in-law, for the newly wedded bride of our only son was, I noticed, too tight on her soft, milky flesh. The strings dug into her curves, and I couldn't stop my hesitant self from noticing the moles, both little reds ones and black tils on her sizeable love handles.

I caught my dirty and lecherous gaze of a father-in-law, falling on one of her oh-so-delicately-placed, piercing-black-coloured mole right over the bulge of her plentiful left breast. It played peak-a-boo with me for a while, 'til she caught me staring and slowly fixed her pallu (drape) over the naughty mole, breathing heavily, biting her swollen lower lip.

What a beauty my son had scored. Just like the mythical virgin goddess, Sita, herself. Untouched, and dripping with fertility. A fertility my sagging sixty-year-old ballsacks haven't come close to in years. Oh, how I delight in the smell of young tight pussy. My eyes rest on my son's hand clenching her ass right below the luscious small of her back, draped in my wife's white, wet, and worn chiffon saree.

It was a ritual in our household when a new member was introduced into the family, she had to be initiated. My wife is a stickler in these matters of purity. Dressing up in the woman of the household's soiled saree, preferably with the man of house's semen from the previous night. It is preferable for it to be white, stained, and yes, wet—step one.

It was followed by my wife performing step number two on the new bride. To give her a steaming, hot bath in a tub filled with aroma oils, herbs, and minerals. I had heard from the maids that my wife had even allowed her son's newlywed to lick on her heavy mommy nipples leaking with milk. The initiation has always taken place in our family in order to prepare a body, to nourish it, and let it ripen. It is like the marination of meat before our wolf of a son can lap it all up and indulge. He's never had such tender and juicy meat before, and neither have I.

I can see moans escaping my wife's lips as baby girl hungrily kneaded those cougar breasts of my forever-milking wife. I know she enjoys breastfeeding the young like her fully grown thirty-year-old, hungry son. I, too, have received quite a mouthful in his absence, I must admit. However, the touch of those strawberry lips of bahurani (daughter-in-law) on her erect and aching peaks, must have made her twist and turn, gasp for breath, and resist release.

I've heard bahu is a slurper and digs in with her chin and teeth, only to never let the swollen leaking bud go away from her strawberry fucking mouth. She slurps it right back in after the little pull and release. Her mother-in-law is left with her back arched, when our fed, little darling girl falls asleep in her bosom; drooling in warm milk, nourished to the brim.

It was a pleasure feeding her son; feeling his hard, virile cock poking against her saree's pleats. But it was another pleasure altogether, feeding the same mouth of this young and needy whore who is able to pleasure her son's rock-hard, bulbous cock every night. She needed to know what her man feeds on in the afternoons in his mother's room. She needed to know the taste behind that wet spot she always carries soaking above her areola on her blouse, which she deftly covers in front of suspecting eyes.

After feeding baby girl, my wife covers her in a warm fuzzy blanket of our master bedroom and licks her dry. Laying kisses on her neck, perking up her push up bra, wrapping her in a red saree, painting her arching toes with the traditional dripping Alta on white sheers. She was now ready to be consumed.

There was anticipation in her face, especially as my wife had propped her up, the top button of her blouse flapping open to mine and my son's liking. A little bit of my wife's spit by the side of her lips, drooling down her neck, added to her yumminess. My wife whispered sweet nothings in her ear to keep her breathing easy; her chest was heaving.

The havan (fireplace) was set up by the bed. Even the purohit (priest), my long time friend, couldn't take his chaste eyes off the raw beauty she reeked of; lowered eyelashes, a bleeding cut in the lip, Rajnigandha flowers in her tresses dangling down her sleek shoulders and collarbone. With a kamarbandh (chain like an anklet) on her sweaty waist, and with maids smoking her hair in camphor fumes, she shivered as they inked her entire lower back with needle pricks of indelible indigo. I imagined a phoenix with its wings spread open, greeting anyone who she bent and ground her backside against. I saw my conservative wife kiss the ratio and cover it with the red saree, in case people gave it too much attention. I was reserved, according to tradition; ink art is to be seen only by the one in that position who has her from behind.

I dressed as he'd instructed, in pure silk dhoti (sarong/trousers), and bare-chested. I was to perform the ultimate act of a father and the man of the house. I had to tear down my daughter-in-law's hymen and lay the semen of my forefathers in her foreign womb. It needed to be known whether she can take a pounding. I just didn't want to see tears come down her innocent eyes as I try to squeeze myself into her tight virgin pussy. I apologized to her deeply saying that I, too, did not want to do this; but was solely performing for the sake of our family.

Little did she know how I would secretly watch her and my son undress each other at night. Maybe she knew I watched. I've seen her looking towards the doorway often when my lucky bastard of a son would have his head buried between her thighs. She was always a sight. But she didn't have to know! To her, I was only doing my duty.

She screamed as I rammed my hard cock into her. I noticed it slipping deeper when I quit being rough on her, and chewed on her earlobe, and her navel. She felt heavenly. It made her giggle and pout for what she told me—that I feel like her daddy.

I was shocked to know that her father would ask her to spread her legs and put his face in between and bite. It was a game he played, she moaned and said. A few hours later, found her with me in a pool of red saree, her red heels atop my room's bar, or madira, counter's slab with my face buried between her legs, and her pink nails digging into my head calling out her daddy's name.

I'd tasted ambrosia. She squirted little by little into her father-in-law's mouth.

As the hymns from the yagya (ceremony) purohit ji was performing increased in volume, the smoke from the flames rose and her eyes turned red and watery. Her moans turned husky and raspy, becoming groans. Her nails dug into my wrinkled skin and as I peeled off her saree, layer by layer, to feel her goosebumps, she wrestled and fought me.

It felt like sin; especially the way she went on melting out like liquid butter, with my every potbellied thrust. This woman would be a joy for my son, a treat, and a gooey tart in the truest sense. Feeling benevolent, I stop drilling into her, pull out, and make her kneel with her ass facing me. I salivate looking a the shimmery border of the saree tracing the edges of the phoenix tattoo on her lower back. Pulling the saree down, a thin gold G-string kamarbandh hangs over like bling, above her inked back and jiggly ass.

I ask for some warm ghee from the purohit. I take some between my fingers and rub it around her puckered asshole. She realises what I'm about to do, and arches her back so much that her belly touches the bed and her breasts push through her bra to rest on the foam pillow forward. The sight resembles that of a bitch desperately needing my fat cock slapping against her butt cheeks. The G-string clinks apart and I hold her waist by a finger rounded up the kamarbandh.

She obliges and bends down further, just as the sage and my wife were looking on aghast; telling me how this was dirty, and not how respectable women were supposed to be fucked by respectable families. I couldn't care less, and continued to fuck my daughter-in-law... in the ass, as she muffled her moans into the pillow.

She knew I was meaning to cum loads in the spot I could feel her shuddering in; so I spanked her hard. So hard that it turned red, and she trembled and came in waves all over my cock. Seeing her head hung in shame and embarrassment, at having enjoyed her initiation, my son was brought in by the sage as the final test.

She became pink as a beetroot, almost on the verge of tears; and my son had his mouth wide open, jaw dropped. I looked at him straight in the eye, as I ground shamelessly into his bride's ass. As I groped her breasts from behind, releasing a nipple pressed in tightly by her bra, a tear escaped her eye and fell on my finger. I raised my hand and clamped her mouth tightly, so she couldn't scream as I emptied the contents of my sack into her shuddering cove. I jerked off in rounds, little by little.

Meanwhile, my son had slammed the door on us in a rage, especially his new wife. His mother went to his room to bear the brunt of it. I could hear her loud squeaks, as well as the bed's. They wanted me to hear. I was jerking off to my wife's loud moans.

The purohit touched her after I was done. He cleansed her with different kinds of leaves and water. Her pores had opened, he proclaimed. She was now ready for our son. Her pores ached to be touched by his warmth.

I, on the other hand, loved my wife watching that young mouth go down on me and relish me; the gaping expression as I looked her in the eye, holding those soft curls and guiding myself deeper, and moaning my daughter-in-law's name... was unforgivable.

It was pure blasphemy.

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Text: Rita_Skeeter

Edit: Kenji Sato