Taboo Unleashed - Friend's Confession

Disclaimer:

This story is pure fiction and made for adult readers only. It has mature themes, explicit content, and taboo topics that might upset some people. Characters, events, and places are all made up, not real life. We don't support or promote any bad behavior or illegal acts in the story. Readers should be careful. If you're not okay with such topics, please don't read.

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The tube light flickers a bit in the small one-room flat in Mukherjee Nagar, Delhi, throwing a weak glow on piles of UPSC books, messy notes, and a half-empty coffee mug. Mohit and Vikram, two friends who share the flat, sit bent over their desks, feeling the heavy pressure of their dreams like the sticky Delhi heat. The Civil Services Exam is coming up in a few months, a far but scary deadline that's already sucked out their hope, sleep, and peace. The fun talks from their college days are gone, replaced by long silences, broken only by the sound of turning pages or a tired sigh.

Mohit throws his pen on the table, leaning back in his chair with a groan. "I can't do this anymore, Vikram. Three years of this struggle, and I'm still nowhere. I'm losing it." His voice shakes, full of frustration and a deep loneliness that eats at him like a bad itch.

Vikram doesn't look up from his book, but his jaw tightens. "Same, bhai. I haven't slept well in weeks. My head's all messed up. Sometimes I wonder why we're even trying." He rubs his eyes, dark circles under them showing he hasn't slept and has secret worries.

The room goes quiet again, the silence heavy with their shared sadness. They're both 25, stuck in this tight trap of big dreams and being alone. Mukherjee Nagar, with its coaching centers everywhere and crowds of students, feels like a jail. No family, no girlfriends, no way out--just chasing a future that seems farther every day.

It starts simple that night. Mohit, wanting to break the boredom, makes a small joke. "You know, if I don't pass Prelims this time, I might just run and marry some hot Bhabhi from the street." He grins, thinking Vikram will roll his eyes.

But Vikram laughs, a dark kind of laugh. "Bhabhis, huh? Yeah, they've got that feel. Mature, curvy... better than these silly college girls." He pauses for a second, then says, "You ever watch those desi MILF videos? The ones with sarees and stuff?"

Mohit's eyes widen, a little spark of interest in his tired face. "Wait, you like that too? I thought I was the only weird one here." He leans in, forgetting his tiredness for a bit. "Bro, those are my favorite. Something about how they move, you know? Real women."

What starts as small talk turns big fast. They open up, sharing stories--favorite videos, actresses, fantasies. It's a way to forget the fear of failing and the loneliness that sits heavy in their chests. They laugh, argue about what they like, and for the first time in months, the flat feels alive.

But deep down, something darker grows. One night, after a few beers they sneak in, Vikram's voice changes. "You ever... think about someone special when you're watching that stuff?" His voice is low, careful, like he's testing something.

Mohit stops, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"

Vikram shrugs, not looking at him. "I don't know. Like... someone you shouldn't. Someone close." He swallows hard, then says quietly, "My sister's married now, right? She's got that Bhabhi vibe. Sometimes I catch myself looking when she comes home. It's wrong, but..."

He doesn't finish, but the words hang there. It started a year back, when Vikram was home for Diwali. His big sister, Priya, left her phone on the kitchen counter while she went to help their mom with rangoli. Vikram, bored and a bit nosy, picked it up to see the time. The screen lit up with a message that stopped his heart: "I'll do anything you want, just tell me..." The name was some guy she never talked about.

His finger hovered over the screen. He knew he shouldn't, but he swiped anyway. The chat opened, and his world turned upside down. Messages rolled by--dirty, wild, full of her giving in. "I'm yours to use," she wrote. "Punish me if I'm bad." And then, in the chat, pictures. Naked, clear, her face right there--smirking, biting her lip, her body posed in ways that broke the sweet, shy sister he knew. Priya, the one who yelled at him for skipping homework, who blushed at family parties, was someone else.

Vikram slammed the phone down, heart racing, feeling angry, ashamed, and turned on all at once. He was mad--at her for hiding this, at himself for looking, at the guy who got this side of her. But the shame didn't stop the heat he felt. Her body--curvy, soft, forbidden--stuck in his head. That night, alone in his room, he gave in, thinking of those pictures, hating himself but unable to stop. It started a bad cycle, a dark thought that grew every time he saw her after, her saree tight on her hips, her laugh mocking him with what he knew.

The air in the flat gets heavy as Vikram finishes talking. Mohit doesn't laugh or back away. Instead, he nods slowly, his own secret coming out. "My mom, bro. I don't know how it started. Back in school, I'd peek through the bathroom door when she was changing. It's like an itch I can't scratch. I hate myself, but I can't stop." He takes a shaky breath, then keeps going, voice low. "I grew up in a village in Bihar, you know? Rough place. Women there--my mom, aunts, bhabhis--they did work all day. Washing, sweeping, cooking. I'd see them bend over, their blouse showing too much. Bathing in the angan in just a petticoat, the cloth sticking to their skin. Big, real bodies--love handles, belly folds, saggy breasts, cellulite, stretch marks on their ass. It messed me up."

Vikram's eyes widen a bit, but he doesn't say anything, letting Mohit talk. "I'd watch them," Mohit says, looking far away. "Hide behind walls, see them bathe or change. My mom was the worst. She's in her late 50s now, but back then... she'd sweep the floor in a blouse and petticoat, and there was this slit at the waist--small, teasing. Every time she moved, I'd see her thigh, soft and thick. Washing clothes, the petticoat would ride up, showing more. I'd think about untying it, letting it fall, touching her big, cellulite ass--those stretch marks, that heavy sag. That petticoat--it's stuck with me. I can't see one without... you know." He rubs his face, ashamed but needing to say it. "Those bodies, man. Real, raw, desi. That's what I want."

Their secrets sit between them, heavy and real. They should feel bad, but instead, they find a strange comfort in sharing. Over the next few weeks, their talks get braver. Mohit tells how he stayed longer at home during holidays, watching his mom work, the petticoat teasing him, his mind stuck on untying it to feel her skin. Vikram says how Priya's messages changed his brain, how every visit home now is a fight to not stare at her, her smile making him think things he never said before.

It was a fall they didn't plan, a slow slip into a world they found through late-night porn and quiet confessions. Incest fantasies--forbidden, wrong, addicting--became their escape. They talked about how it started: a quick thought, a sneaky look, a guilt that turned into something they couldn't resist. They didn't judge each other; they couldn't. They were too deep in it.

One rainy night, with thunder outside, Vikram leans back on the mattress they use as a couch. "What if we... you know, acted it out? Not for real, of course, but... close enough?"

Mohit frowns, curious but careful. "What, like roleplay? With who?"

"Professionals," Vikram says, voice really quiet. "There are women out there who'll do anything for money. We can hire two--one for each. Tell them to act like... them."

The idea sticks, wrong but exciting. They talk about it for days--how to do it, how much it costs, the risks--until their frustration and desire win over their doubts. They put together their small savings, call a secret agency, and set a date.

Two women show up late one night, each picked to look like their fantasy. The first, for Vikram, is in her early 30s, like Priya--curvy, with a soft, sexy body, wearing a saree that hugs her hips, her smile a bit teasing. The second, for Mohit, is in her late 50s, like his mom--full hips, her body sagging more from age, big heavy breasts pushing against an old blouse, her petticoat tied low, showing a thick, cellulite body with deep stretch marks and soft, loose skin.

Both women are calm and ready, nodding as they get their roles: one to be Priya, the other to be Mohit's mom.

The room is dark, the air thick with nerves and the smell of cheap incense they lit to hide their fear. Vikram goes first, taking the woman who looks like Priya to one corner. She turns to him, her voice soft like Priya's. "Bhaiya, what's wrong?" she asks, but Vikram's face darkens.

Those words start a fire in him--anger, betrayal, and a twisted need that's been growing since that Diwali night. He grabs her hard, pushing her against the wall, holding her wrists up with rough force. His breathing is heavy, eyes wild with anger and desire, his cock already hard in his pants, thick and ready.

"You think you can hide it?" he growls, voice low and mean, letting out all the rage he's held in on this woman playing Priya. "Those messages, those pictures--you're not innocent. You're a slut, right?" He slaps her hard across the face, the sound loud, her cheek turning red as she gasps. He pulls her saree up, ripping it roughly, showing her soft, shaking thighs and the wet heat between them. His fingers dig into her hips as he pushes into her, hard and mean, the wet sound of skin slapping loud, his thick cock stretching her tight, wet pussy. Each hard thrust lets out his anger, his hips hitting her with force that makes her grunt, her body shaking against the wall, sweat dripping down her neck.

He turns her around, bends her over the mattress, and spanks her ass hard--once, twice, three times--each hit leaving a red mark on her soft skin, her cries quiet as she bites her lip. "Say it," he growls, not stopping his thrusts, his hand hitting her ass again, the sting making her tighten around him, hot and wet. "Say you're a slut. Loud." His voice breaks, stuck between order and need.

He grabs her hair, pulls her head back as he pounds into her, her ass shaking with every hit. She chokes out, "I... I'm a slut," her voice rough and loud, full of giving in. Those words make him feel a sick thrill, mixing with his anger. He pulls out, pushes her to her knees, and grabs her jaw, forcing his cock--wet with her juices--deep in her throat. She gags, spit dripping down her chin as he thrusts hard, his balls slapping her face, the wet, choking sound filling the room as he uses her mouth roughly.

Under all that roughness, guilt eats at him--a sharp, burning pain that digs deep with every slap, every thrust. Each move is a cry of hating himself, a fight between the brother he was and the monster he's turned into. His climax hits hard, a loud roar coming out as he spills in her throat, hot and thick, his body shaking with release and disgust. He steps back, breathing hard, hands shaking as he looks at her--saree torn, face red, lips swollen, throat sore, thighs wet with sweat and his mess. The high feels dirty, an empty hurt coming in as regret bites him hard, leaving him quiet and broken.

At the same time, Mohit takes the other woman, the one looking like his mom, to the other side of the room. She fixes herself, making her face look like a calm mom, and turns to him. "Beta, come here," she says softly, her voice cutting through him like a knife. Mohit's breath stops, his cock jumping at the sound. The anger he's held for years--anger at the exam, at his life, at himself--comes up fast. He grabs her roughly, hands tight on her shoulders as he pushes her on the mattress, her body bouncing a bit under him. He rips at her blouse, the cloth breaking to show the petticoat underneath, and he starts thrusting--hard, messy, full of rage and need, his thick cock stretching her tight, wet pussy as he goes deep, the mattress creaking loudly. Her warmth holds him, slick and tight, and he groans at the raw, wet feel, each thrust like a punishment, his balls slapping her with a heavy, wet sound.

But after a bit, something changes. The anger fades, turning into a deep, aching need. His hands move down, shaking as he unties the petticoat knot, letting it fall. Her heavy, cellulite ass comes out--stretch marks all over the saggy, sweaty skin, her body soft from age, just like his mom in her late 50s. He grabs it hard, fingers digging into the soft, rough texture, feeling the heavy weight as he slows his thrusts, enjoying how her pussy tightens around him, hot and wet. His rhythm gets softer, his hips moving into her with a deep, loving grind, his cock sliding in and out with a wet, steady sound that fills the room, her moans low and deep as he stretches her wide. He buries his face in her neck, her smell--sweat and cheap perfume--wrapping around him, and whispers, "Mom... Mom..." The word comes out, a small cry at first, then louder, a plea that turns into a sob as he takes her with a soft, desperate feel, her ass shaking under his hands, the wet heat of her pussy pulling him in.

Tears burn his eyes as he holds her tight, his body shaking, his cock still deep inside, pulsing with need. He presses his face to her chest, her big, saggy breasts soft and sweaty against his cheek, the dark nipple hard and wet with sweat, her skin loose with age but warm. He moves closer, his lips touching the salty skin before he starts sucking, hungry, his tongue moving around the nipple, tasting her as he nurses like a kid looking for comfort. It's messy, raw, his moans quiet against her skin as he thrusts one last time, spilling inside her with a shaking cry, hot and thick, his cum filling her as he whimpers, sucking harder, lost in the raw, forbidden feel. She doesn't pull away, just runs her fingers through his hair as he cries--deep, shaking sobs that shake him, his face buried in her breasts, sucking and whimpering as the woman, a stranger paid to be his mom, becomes a place for all his hidden desires, all his buried shame.

When it's done, both women get up slowly. The one with Vikram fixes her torn saree, calm even with the mess, while the one with Mohit ties her petticoat back, smoothing her blouse as Mohit curls up, still whimpering, his cock soft against his thigh, wet with their mixed fluids. Vikram sits in the corner, staring at the floor, his own release lost in the heavy feel of Mohit's breakdown and the echo of his own roughness. The women leave without talking, the door clicking shut, and the flat goes quiet again.

The next morning, they go back to their books, the UPSC dream still out of reach. They don't talk about that night again, but something changes. The loneliness stays, the frustration doesn't go--but the dark, addicting pull of their secret world gets stronger, a shadow they can't escape.