Incest Incest There is something about my mother Monica

[kashyab]

This is not my original creation.

This rewritten version of the story "There's Something About My Mom Seetha" by the author NovelistCasanova around March 2015 on blogs and forums like, and later reposted on sites such as XForum and Indian Sex Stories archives. I am not the author, nor do I claim any ownership or credit for the core plot, characters, or the raw fantasy elements that define this classic piece of amateur Indian erotic fiction.

The original story, while highly engaging for its target audience due to its bold taboo themes and cultural details, suffered from numerous grammatical errors, spelling mistakes, awkward phrasing, tense inconsistencies, punctuation issues, and some logical flow problems that made it harder to read smoothly.

I have taken the initiative to rewrite and elaborate on it solely as a personal project to improve readability: correcting grammar and logic, enhancing sentence structure, fixing typos, improving pacing, and adding more sensual depth and descriptive attention to key erotic sections — all while preserving the spirit, events, and explicit nature of the source material.

No harm is intended toward the original author, the story's legacy in its niche community, or anyone involved. This is purely a fan-edited, polished rendition shared in good faith for better enjoyment by readers who appreciate the genre. If the original author or rights holders object, this can be removed immediately.

In this rewritten continuation of the story, I have chosen to cast my favorite, Monica as Seetha—not merely as a name swap, but because no other face and form could embody the character more perfectly. From the very first time I saw her on screen as a child, she became the impossible standard: those deep, rich brown eyes—almond-shaped and slightly hooded, framed by thick, naturally dark lashes that cast delicate shadows across her high, sculpted cheekbones. Her eyes are luminous yet mysterious, capable of holding a gaze with an intensity that feels both knowing and inviting, conveying maternal warmth one moment and smoldering sensuality the next. They seem to draw you in endlessly, reflecting light in subtle flecks of gold and amber when she smiles or turns toward the sun.

Her face is a masterpiece of classical Italian elegance: prominent, razor-sharp cheekbones that give her an almost regal, statuesque poise, yet they soften dramatically into devastating warmth and approachability when her full, naturally pouty lips curve upward. Those lips—plush, pillowy, and a deep rose hue that looks perpetually kissed—are legendary, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper, always seeming glossy even without makeup, parted just enough to hint at slow, sinful kisses or throaty whispers. A small, refined nose sits perfectly proportioned between them, adding harmony to her features without drawing attention away from the magnetic pull of her eyes and mouth.


Her skin is flawless olive-toned porcelain-gold—warm, sun-kissed Mediterranean radiance that glows as if lit from within, smooth and velvety to the imagined touch, with a subtle luminosity that makes every curve and hollow of her body appear touchably soft and alive. It flushes gently under emotion or arousal, adding layers of vitality to her already hypnotic presence. Standing at around 5'7" to 5'9" (170–175 cm), she carries an hourglass figure of timeless voluptuousness—full, heavy breasts (often cited in the 35–37 inch range), a cinched waist that flares into wide, womanly hips (around 35–36 inches), and long, toned yet softly feminine legs that seem designed for wrapping around a lover. Her dark, glossy raven-black hair falls in thick, lustrous waves—rich and silky, often cascading past her shoulders to frame her face or spill wildly across a pillow, swaying with every sensual movement like dark liquid silk.


The way her long, graceful neck arches, leading to strong yet elegant shoulders and collarbones that beg to be traced, completes the vision. She is the blueprint of forbidden maternal desire made flesh—curvaceous, enveloping, eternally sensual, and utterly unattainable in reality yet perfectly attainable in the fevered depths of fantasy. No other woman could make Seetha feel this real, this dangerously intoxicating, this irresistible. That’s why she had to be the one.


Monica Bellucci isn't merely beautiful; she is the living embodiment of voluptuous, timeless sensuality. Standing at around 5'7" to 5'8" (170–173 cm), she possesses a statuesque yet curvaceous figure that commands attention—measurements often cited in her modeling days as roughly 35–24–35 or evolving to a fuller 37–25–36, with a 34C bra size that accentuates her naturally heavy, perfectly rounded breasts. Her body is hourglass perfection: a narrow, cinched waist flaring into wide, womanly hips and long, toned legs that seem endless, her thighs soft yet firm, inviting touch. Her skin is a warm, sun-kissed olive tone—smooth, luminous, and flawless, glowing with an inner radiance that makes every inch appear touchably soft and velvety. It flushes subtly under arousal or light, adding to her irresistible vitality.

Her face is a masterpiece of classical Italian beauty: high, sculpted cheekbones that catch the light dramatically, framing almond-shaped, deep brown eyes—sultry, expressive, and slightly hooded, capable of conveying both maternal tenderness and raw, smoldering lust with a single glance. Her eyebrows are elegantly arched and dark, adding definition and intensity. Below them sits a small, feminine nose—delicately proportioned, refined, and harmonious. But her lips... oh, those full, plush, naturally pouty lips are legendary—pillowy and rose-tinted, the lower one slightly fuller, always seeming ready for a deep, lingering kiss or to part in a throaty moan. They curve into smiles that promise secrets, and when glossed or bitten in passion, they become hypnotic.

Her hair is a cascade of rich, glossy raven-black waves—thick, lustrous, and often falling to her shoulders or lower, framing her face like dark silk, swaying with every sensual movement. A long, graceful neck leads down to strong yet feminine shoulders, collarbones that beg to be traced by fingertips, and arms that are softly toned, ending in elegant hands with long fingers perfect for caressing or gripping in ecstasy.

Any boy—especially one who grew up obsessively watching her films—would be utterly helpless against her allure. I was no exception. From childhood, I harbored a secret, burning longing for her: I dreamed of being the fortunate boy in Malèna, the one she graces with her presence as she enters his bedroom in that iconic scene—her movements slow, deliberate, and achingly sensual, hips swaying with effortless grace, dark eyes locked onto his with a magnetic intensity that promised everything forbidden. In my fantasies, she approaches him (me), allowing his trembling hands to undress her layer by layer, revealing the breathtaking body beneath.

In my deepest dreams, I imagined savoring her to the fullest: my hands roaming every lush curve—palming the generous weight of her breasts, thumbs circling her dark, erect nipples until they harden under my touch; my mouth trailing hot kisses along the sensitive column of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts, lingering at her navel (a perfect little dip in her soft belly), then lower to the plush inner thighs that part willingly for me. I would taste her everywhere—salty-sweet skin, the musky warmth between her legs—claiming her completely as she arches and trembles, her husky, Italian-accented voice moaning my name in total surrender.

I fantasized about those private, intimate moments: her whispering "son" in that low, velvety timbre—rich, throaty, and dripping with forbidden affection—while I take her in missionary position. My smaller, youthful frame cocooned entirely within her bigger, enveloping body—her voluptuous curves molding around me like a protective yet yielding goddess. Her long legs wrap high around my waist, heels digging into my lower back to pull me deeper; her full breasts press flat against my chest with every thrust, nipples grazing my skin; one manicured hand slides down to cup and press my ass, urging me on, while the other threads through my hair or clutches the sheets. Her body arches beneath me in waves of pleasure—back bowing off the bed, hips rising to meet mine, olive skin glistening with sweat, dark hair fanning wildly across the pillow, those mesmerizing brown eyes half-lidded in ecstasy as she gasps and cries out.

She isn’t just beautiful; she’s the ultimate blueprint of forbidden desire—maternal warmth fused with raw, untamed sensuality, eternally untouchable in reality yet achingly attainable in fantasy. No one else could make this mother figure feel so real, so dangerously intoxicating, so utterly irresistible. That’s why she had to be the one—Monica, reimagined as my own Seetha, the perfect vessel for every taboo longing I’ve ever harbored.

Reader discretion is advised — this remains an adult, incest-themed erotic fantasy with explicit content.

 

[kashyab]

​

There's Something About My Mom Monica

My name is Karthik, and I'm 18 years old, the only son of my parents. My dad works as a general manager at a bank, which keeps him busy most of the time, leaving my mom, Monica, to handle the household. She's 34, a stunning housewife who turns heads wherever she goes.​

With her voluptuous figure—full, curvaceous breasts that strain against her blouses, a narrow waist that flares into wide, swaying hips, and an ass that's perfectly rounded and firm—she embodies every forbidden fantasy. She resembles some Hollywood actress, especially those luscious, plump lips that seem designed for endless kisses.

Mom always dresses in sarees when she's out, the fabric clinging to her body in ways that highlight her deep navel and the gentle jiggle of her assets with every step. At home, she's more casual, often in nighties that hint at the treasures beneath.

I live in Bangalore, studying in college, but my mind is rarely on books. It's on her—my mom. There's something intoxicating about Monica that drives me wild. Her lips, so soft and inviting, are my obsession. She calls me "kanna," her little darling, and showers me with affection, but I've twisted that innocence into something deeper, darker. I masturbate thinking of her a zillion times, especially to this old college photo of hers in a tight red chudi, where her ex-boyfriend is lifting her up, his hand boldly cupping her pussy from behind. The way her body arches in that picture... it makes my cock throb.​

"Karthik... Karthik... hurry up da kanna, get ready! We're getting late for the wedding reception," my mom called out, her voice laced with mild frustration as she knocked insistently on my bedroom door. "Your dad is stuck in yet another endless office meeting—he can't bring the car today. Looks like we'll have to take an auto."

"Sure, Mom, just five minutes!" I replied, my heart racing as I scrambled off the bed.

I slammed the laptop shut in a panic, cutting off the glowing screen that had held me captive for the past half-hour. There it was again—that one particular college photo of hers, the one that never failed to drive me insane. In the image, Mom—younger, bolder, her body still ripening into the voluptuous curves she now possessed—was dressed in a skin-tight red chudi that hugged every inch of her like a second skin. Her ex-boyfriend had lifted her playfully off the ground, his strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind. But his right hand had wandered daringly low, cupping her mound directly over the thin fabric, fingers pressing possessively against her pussy while his left hand gripped her hip tightly. Mom's mouth was parted in a wide, shocked "O," her eyes wide with surprise, yet there was a spark of mischief in them. Her female friends around them were laughing hysterically, clearly in on the fun. She had kept this scandalous snapshot tucked away in her personal diary as a secret memento of that old flame—a reminder of wilder, freer days.

I had been staring at it, stroking myself slowly at first, then faster, lost in the fantasy of being the one lifting her, touching her like that, claiming what was once his. My cock was still half-hard, slick from the edge I'd brought myself to, when her knock jolted me back to reality. I quickly wiped myself clean with a tissue, tucked everything away, and took a deep breath to compose myself.​

Ours was a small, happy family—a comfortably settled upper-middle-class household in bustling Bangalore. I was the only son, now 18, though I looked much younger: short for my age, slim, the typical "first bencher" type who spent more time buried in books (or secret fantasies) than playing sports. My dad was a General Manager at a reputed bank, always buried in meetings and deadlines, leaving the house mostly to Mom and me.

And then there was my mom, Monica—34 years old, a full-time housewife who somehow managed to look effortlessly stunning every single day. At 5'4", she carried a bit of healthy softness that only enhanced her allure: full, heavy breasts that strained against her blouses, a narrow waist flaring into wide, swaying hips, and an ass so perfectly rounded it jiggled enticingly with every step. She resembled the actress Sukanya in her prime—those same expressive eyes, that radiant smile, and most intoxicating of all, those plump, pillowy lips that seemed made for endless, devouring kisses. Whenever she went out, she draped herself in elegant sarees that clung to her curves, the pallu occasionally slipping to reveal the deep dip of her navel or the gentle swell of her cleavage. At home, she favored soft nighties that hinted at everything beneath.​

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my mother’s face — from those eyes that had haunted me since I first understood what desire really meant.

My mom's eyes were not just beautiful; they were a weapon, a trap, a slow-burning fire that consumed me every time she looked my way. They were, almost unnaturally beautiful, shaped like perfect almonds tilted slightly upward at the outer corners, giving her that signature feline, almost predatory grace even when she was being soft and maternal.

The irises were a rare, crystalline turquoise-green — not the muddy hazel of most people, but a luminous, shifting sea-green that caught every flicker of light and turned it into something hypnotic. In the low bedroom light, they looked deeper, darker at the edges, the pupils blown wide with whatever storm was brewing inside her, making the green glow like wet emerald.

The whites were pure, almost unnaturally bright, contrasting sharply with the thick, jet-black lashes that framed them — long, curled, dense, casting delicate shadows across the high plane of her cheekbones every time she blinked slowly, deliberately. Those lashes were so thick they looked like they were painted on, yet they were real, natural, fanning out like dark silk wings. When she lowered them halfway — that half-lidded, sleepy, come-hither look she gave without even trying — I felt my stomach drop, cock twitching instantly. It was the look that said she knew exactly what I was thinking, exactly how hard I was, and she didn’t mind one bit.

The brows above them were perfectly arched — high, elegant, dark, framing the eyes like a crown. They could go from soft and nurturing to sharp and commanding in a heartbeat, and when she raised one slightly while looking at me… it felt like she was peeling me open, seeing every filthy thought I tried to hide.

Her eyes weren’t just pretty — they were alive, always moving, always watching. They crinkled at the corners when she smiled — that soft, dimpled smile that made her look like the perfect loving mother — but the green deepened, darkened, turned molten when she let the mask slip even a little. In those moments, they weren’t a mother’s eyes anymore. They were a woman’s eyes — hungry, knowing, dangerous. The kind of eyes that could make me cum just from staring, from the way they locked onto me, held me, stripped me bare without a single word.

I hated how they made me feel — small, helpless, guilty, and so fucking hard I ached.
I loved how they made me feel — owned, wanted, seen in the dirtiest, most secret parts of myself.

Those eyes — my mother’s eyes — men would beg to die for them.

And I would beg for it every single time.

I lived for those little moments: the way she'd lean over to kiss my forehead or cheek goodnight, her lips brushing my skin so softly it sent shivers straight to my groin. Those kisses were never long enough, never deep enough—always just a gentle press, warm and maternal, yet every time her breath ghosted across my ear or her hair tickled my face, my cock would twitch and harden instantly under the blanket. I'd lie there afterward, heart hammering, replaying the feel of her mouth—imagining it opening wider, tongue slipping out to taste me, those perfect, full lips wrapping around the head of my dick while she looked up at me with those big, dark eyes, moaning my name in that soft, husky voice she used only when she thought I was asleep. I'd stroke myself furiously, biting my lip to stay quiet, picturing her sucking me deeper, throat relaxing, saliva dripping down her chin as she took every inch, her hands cupping my balls, squeezing gently. I came so many times just to the memory of her goodnight kiss—thick, hot ropes spilling over my fist while guilt and pleasure fought inside me.

She called me "kanna," her darling boy, showering me with affection that I had long since twisted into something forbidden, something dark and irresistible. Every time she said it—soft, loving, her hand resting on my shoulder or brushing through my hair—my mind turned it filthy: "kanna" whispered against my ear while she rode me, "kanna" gasped when I thrust deep inside her, "kanna" moaned when I came on her tongue. I hated how much I loved it—how the word that should have meant safety and innocence now made me ache with need. I wanted her to call me that while I fucked her, while I pinned her down, while she begged me to fill her again and again. The guilt was a constant knife in my gut, but the desire was stronger—always stronger.

As I quickly changed into a neat shirt and trousers, my mind lingered on that photo, on her shocked yet thrilled expression, on the way her body had arched into her ex's touch—back bowed, breasts thrust forward, lips parted in a silent moan. Tonight was just a wedding reception, but already my pulse thrummed with anticipation. Mom in a saree, the auto ride ahead… who knew what small, charged moments awaited? I pictured her sitting beside me in the back seat, the saree riding up her thighs as the auto bumped along, her hand accidentally brushing my leg, her perfume filling the air, her breathing quickening when our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. I imagined slipping my hand under her pallu, fingers grazing the underside of her breast, feeling her nipple harden through the blouse, hearing her sharp inhale, her whispered "kanna… not here…" that would only make me harder.

I opened the door to find her waiting, already dressed in a deep emerald-green saree that shimmered under the hallway light. The low-cut blouse revealed just enough of her creamy cleavage to make my throat go dry—deep valley between her breasts, the soft upper curves rising with every breath, the faint outline of her nipples teasing through the silk. The saree draped low on her hips, exposing the smooth plane of her midriff, the deep navel winking as she moved. Every fold clung to her body, outlining the flare of her hips, the roundness of her ass, the long lines of her legs. She looked like sin wrapped in silk—elegant, maternal, yet radiating the kind of heat that made my cock strain painfully against my trousers.

"Ready, kanna?" she asked, smiling warmly, completely unaware of the storm raging inside me—unaware that her innocent question, her soft voice saying my name, was already making me imagine pushing her against the wall, hiking up that saree, and taking her right there in the hallway.

I nodded, swallowing hard, voice thick.
"Yes, Mom. Always, for you. Let's go.

"Little did I know, this ordinary evening was about to spiral into something far more intoxicating—every accidental brush of her hand, every sway of her hips, every whispered "kanna" pushing me closer to the edge I could no longer pretend I didn't want to fall over.

 

[kirantariq]

Love from Karachi princess