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.
