The bathroom was filled with steam, and the mirror was covered in a thin layer of fog.
Shivani stood before the sink, her hands gripping the cold ceramic edge, her fingertips turning pale.
She tried to raise her arm to turn on the faucet, but a deep ache from within her shoulder blades made the simple task nearly impossible—a profound, muscle-fiber-tearing pain that radiated from the inner edges of her shoulder blades down her entire arm.
Her arms felt as heavy as lead, and she could even sense the involuntary twitching of the muscles in her forearms beneath her skin—a lingering effect of forty minutes of intense, repetitive motion.
Gritting her teeth, she used the strength of her forearms to push the faucet handle, a simple action that brought beads of sweat to her forehead.
Warm water gushed out. She leaned forward, burying her face in the sink, letting the water wash away the sticky mixture of semen and sweat clinging to her skin.
As the water flowed over her face, she felt a burning sensation in certain areas—the tightness left behind by dried semen, especially around her lips. The strong, musky male scent lingered stubbornly in her olfactory memory, even after the water had rinsed it away.
When she lifted her head, she saw her reflection in the foggy mirror—a strange, disheveled woman.
Water droplets trailed down her jawline, flowed over her neck, and pooled in the hollow of her collarbone.
Instinctively, she unfastened the clasp of her sari, letting the traditional garment, soaked with sweat and stained with her son's semen, slip from her body and pool at her feet like a wilted lotus.
The silk fabric landed with a wet splat, the splotches of white gleaming obscenely under the bathroom light.
She unhooked her bra, and her ample breasts sprang free. Standing before the mirror in nothing but her damp white cotton panties, she stared at her own body.
Her breasts—usually dignified and sacred under the modest cover of her sari, adhering to religious teachings even in front of her late husband, reserved only for the sacred duty of breastfeeding—now presented themselves in a disquieting, almost lewd state of arousal!
Due to prolonged leaning forward and continuous arm movement, blood had rushed abnormally to her chest. Blue-green veins stood out starkly beneath her pale, almost translucent skin, spreading like spiderwebs from the base of her breasts toward the areolas, winding over the curves of her bosom like some kind of erotic map…
She had never seen her own breasts so engorged and swollen—they seemed a full size larger than usual, hanging heavily on her chest. The flesh sagged slightly under gravity yet remained taut from the engorgement, creating a fullness reminiscent of ripe fruit on the verge of bursting!
Her nipples were thicker, longer, and more sensitive than she had ever remembered, standing erect in the damp air, a deep rose color tinged with purplish-red—a sign of excessive blood concentration.
The tiny openings at the tips of her nipples were slightly parted, as if silently craving something.
What shocked her most were her areolas. The dark brown circles had expanded to twice their usual size, swelling and protruding in an unfamiliar manner on her breasts, like two ripe, indecent badges embedded on her chest.
The glandular pores on the surface of her areolas were visibly raised, tiny bumps standing out on the engorged tissue, making her entire chest appear utterly wanton.
Shivani's hand trembled as she touched her chest. When her fingertips brushed against the swollen, engorged nipple, a strange electric current shot down her spine—not pain, but a filthy, tingling pleasure that surged from her nipple straight to her lower abdomen, causing the muscles of her inner thighs to involuntarily tighten.
"This is just a physiological reaction," she told herself, her voice hoarse. "Like muscle engorgement after prolonged exercise... like... like..."
But she couldn't finish the lie.
Because every sign from her body was laid bare, her objective physiology betraying her subjective will.
Her gaze drifted downward.
Her lower abdomen curved with a layer of soft fat, yet remained firm—the result of years of yoga and disciplined eating.
Now, the muscles in her groin trembled faintly—not merely the aftermath of compensatory tension in her core muscles from overusing her arms.
She could feel an unfamiliar warmth stirring deep within her abdomen, a dampness spreading in her lower regions. Even after the shower of semen she had just endured, even after washing herself clean, that secretion from deep inside her body remained, impossible to rinse away.
The skin on her inner thighs was flushed from sweat, and as she pressed her long legs together, she could see the muscle contours shifting under the light.
But she noticed her thighs rubbing together ever so slightly, uncontrollably—a small, whorish movement she had never made in her forty years.
What baffled her most was that strange, rising heat and emptiness from deep within her body.
It wasn't from the steam of the bathroom but an internal, pulsating warmth, as if her womb, her vagina, were silently contracting, spasming, remembering the rhythm of that massive organ pulsing in her hand, remembering the force and heat of that thick ejaculation.
Her body—this body that had been widowed for five years, chaste, and proud of its asceticism—was craving more.
"Sin..." she whispered the word, its echo reverberating in the empty bathroom, yet sounding so feeble.
She quickly twisted the cold water tap, splashing icy water onto her face, neck, and chest.
The biting chill made her shudder, and the cold stimulation prevented her nipples from further engorgement—because her physiological arousal had already reached its limit. The cold water merely raised goosebumps on her skin, while the deep-seated heat and swelling remained unmoved.
Forcing herself to ignore these reactions, she squeezed a generous amount of shower gel into her palm and began mechanically, almost roughly, washing her body, especially the areas stained by semen—her arms, chest, and thighs.
As she scrubbed, her fingers accidentally brushed against the root of her thigh, sending another shiver through her.
Shivani abruptly stopped and looked down, her eyes widening in shock.
In her line of sight, her clitoris, without her permission, had for the first time in her life emerged from its hood!
It was swollen like a ripe little red bean, fully exposed from the shelter above her labia!
Engorged and glistening, it reflected a lewd sheen under the bathroom light...
The hood was completely pushed back, retracted to the base of the clitoris, forming a shameful ring of flesh.
This was a part that had never emerged even during sex with her husband—their intercourse had always been direct, brief, focused on penetration and ejaculation, lacking foreplay. She had never been aroused to this extent before.
Only during bathing and cleansing would she carefully turn and wash it, but then it was always shyly curled up, never standing so boldly erect as it was now, as if mocking her piety and self-control.
Shivani's expression twisted in agony. She closed her eyes and began silently reciting verses from the Vedas.
The familiar Sanskrit syllables flowed through her mind like a cool stream, attempting to extinguish the flame of desire that should not exist within her body.
She was reciting the purification verses from the Atharvaveda: "O waters, cleanse me of my sins, wash away my impurities..."
But today, the sacred verses had lost their usual power.
As soon as those holy syllables entered her mind, they were distorted and tainted by the memory of the flesh.
Her thoughts kept drifting back to that room: her son's thin back as he lay face down on the bed, his pale buttocks raised high, his penis—rooted so unnaturally soft—pulled out grotesquely from between his legs, standing erect in the cleft of his buttocks, looking as though it truly grew from behind. That perverse, blasphemous sight had nearly made her vomit at the time, but now, recalling it, a shameful tremor ran through her lower abdomen.
The burning, terrifyingly large organ she had held in both hands—thick as a grown man's wrist, long as a forearm—pulsing and swelling in her grasp...
That slimy sensation—slippery pre-ejaculate mixed with sweat, making wet, squelching sounds between her palm and the fleshy shaft.
And finally, exhausted and on the verge of release from the hell of masturbating her son for so long, she had excitedly rolled off the bed, squatted with legs spread wide before that enormous member, using both arms to frantically stroke his penis, her breasts swaying wildly as she panted heavily before her son's genitals... like, like...
Shivani's mind conjured an image of a bitch in heat she had seen as a child in India.
She remembered how, as her son ejaculated, she had instinctively opened her mouth to gasp and recite prayers, only for a stream of thick, pungent semen to shoot directly into her mouth, slide over her tongue, and pour down her throat...
She... had accidentally swallowed it...
Now, that taste seemed to linger at the back of her tongue—the distinct salty tang and faint bitterness of semen, forming a bizarre contrast with the fragrance of her body wash.
Her arms still ached to this day; every turn of her shoulder joints reminded her of that prolonged, forty-minute mechanical motion—this body she took pride in, maintained through strict discipline and endurance, had nearly collapsed from exhaustion after helping her son masturbate.
And her husband... she forced herself to think of her late husband. Their sexual life had always been brief, restrained, and purposeful—for procreation. He had never made her do such things, and she had never imagined doing them.
His penis was of normal size, normal duration, normal in every way.
Three minutes, five at most, and it was over. Then they would each wash, each pray, returning to their sacred daily routines.
But her son's... that thing... why had it grown like this?
Thick as a beast's, yet soft as boneless at the very root, yet capable of ejaculating so much semen...
Why did it last so long? What kind of monster was this?
Or was it some kind of curse?
Shivani's thoughts were in turmoil. She dried her body with a towel, carefully avoiding her erect nipples, which remained stubbornly stiff—she dared not look down at the outline of her arousal, only quickly wiping herself dry.
Her clitoris still stood firm, appearing even more swollen and red after the shower, like a ripe berry nestled between her equally flushed and engorged labia.
She could only gently press the towel against it to absorb the moisture, not daring to wipe.
Her damp hair cascaded over her shoulders, and unlike usual, she didn't meticulously comb or braid it—her arms simply couldn't hold up for that long—she just roughly towel-dried it, letting her thick, dark locks fall in disarray. A few strands clung to her sweaty neck, giving her a post-coital look of languor and dissipation.
Shivani quickly shook her head to dispel the thought—she and her husband could never be this exhausted.
Or rather, doing it with her husband wouldn't leave her body and mind so drained.
Finally, she put on a conservative, thick bathrobe, tightening the belt to wrap herself up completely.
But as the fabric brushed against her nipples, the two hard peaks remained clearly visible, pressing against the cotton and forming distinct protrusions.
She gritted her teeth and pretended not to see them.
Stepping out of the bathroom, her bare feet touched the cold floor, the texture of the teak wood familiar under her soles, offering a slight sense of calm.
But her feet—those feet always hidden beneath her sari, even her ankles rarely shown—now startled her.
The tops of her feet were pale, with faintly visible veins, her toes slender and slightly curled from the earlier tension.
Suddenly, she remembered how, during those final moments, as she squatted with her legs spread before her son, these feet had dug their toes fiercely into the floor, her arches taut like bows, as if using every ounce of strength to complete that blasphemous act.
That evening's prayers were unusually devout—or rather, she tried to be unusually devout.
The eternal flame before the shrine flickered with a warm glow, the scent of sandalwood filling the living room, attempting to mask the faint, lingering smell of semen beneath her body wash—a scent that seemed to have seeped into her skin, impossible to wash away no matter how hard she scrubbed. She thought it was psychological, her subconscious already tainted.
Shivani's guilt grew heavier. She knelt on the cushion, hands pressed together, forehead touching the ground.
This kneeling posture caused the hem of her bathrobe to part slightly, revealing a glimpse of her calves and ankles.
She tried to ignore the soreness in her knees as they pressed against the floor.
She recited prayers in the most ancient Sanskrit, beseeching the healing god Dhanvantari to cure her son's illness; praying to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, for smooth medical examinations; even pleading to Shiva, the god of destruction and rebirth, that if this was some form of karma, to show her the path to purification.
But her mind could not fully immerse itself.
Whenever she closed her eyes, trying to focus and commune with the divine, those images would intrude: her entire face drenched in hot semen, the thick, white fluid streaming down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth.
Unconsciously, she licked her lips—the memory churned her stomach.
To defile herself like this during prayer...
The guilt nearly made her vomit.
This physical discomfort was like a thorn, constantly pulling her back from sacred contemplation into the mundane world.
And even more terrifying was that in the silence of prayer, the rest of her body was clamoring: the persistent itch and erection from her nipples rubbing against the fabric of her bathrobe, the undeniable presence of her still-swollen and erect clitoris, the slight, memory-driven spasms in her inner thigh muscles, and that hollow, yearning-to-be-filled twitch deep within her vagina—her body was in heat, in heat for the genitals of her own son, in heat during the sacred time of prayer.
"Please grant me another solution," she finally couldn't help but whisper in English, a language she rarely used in prayer, as if uttering this request in a non-sacred tongue could lessen its blasphemy.
"Any method will do, as long as I don't have to... touch him again. Or at least, make the process shorter. His body shouldn't be like this, he's just a child, something must be wrong somewhere... I beg you..."
She remained kneeling for a full hour, twenty minutes longer than usual. But when she finally rose, she felt none of the usual peace and strength that followed prayer. Only the numbness in her legs and a deeper weariness.
At least, her three points had finally calmed down...
Wednesday, 9 AM, Saint Mary's Hospital Private Medical Wing.
Outside the ultrasound examination room, Shivani wore a new dark blue sari, her hair meticulously braided into a sleek bun, her face once again a mask of its usual calm.
Only she knew that beneath the sari, her arms still ached faintly, and her heart was far more anxious than it appeared.
Rohan sat beside her, head bowed, staring at his shoes.
After yesterday's complete release, the pain had vanished entirely, but today, that familiar sense of fullness was beginning to gather again in his lower abdomen.
He knew what examination was scheduled for today, and shame wrapped around him like a thin film, making it almost impossible to breathe.
Dr. Carter appeared right on time.
Today, she wore a standard white coat over a simple beige shirt and black trousers, with low-heeled leather shoes on her feet.
Her blonde hair was neatly pinned up at the back of her head, and behind her glasses, her blue eyes were professional and composed, as if last week's awkward incident had never happened.
"Ms. Sharma, Rohan, please follow me," her voice steady.
The ultrasound examination lasted twenty minutes. Rohan lay on the examination bed as the technician—a middle-aged man—applied cold gel to his scrotum and carefully scanned with the probe.
The black-and-white images on the screen were like a foreign language to Shivani, but she stared intently, trying to read something from the technician's expression.
After the examination, they waited for the results in Dr. Carter's consultation room. The air in the room was almost frozen, with only the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock slicing through the silence.
When Dr. Carter entered with the report, her expression was thoughtful. She sat down behind her desk and opened the folder.
"The ultrasound results show that Rohan's testicles are indeed about forty percent larger than those of an adult male, but the structure is normal, with no tumors or other abnormal tissue," she adjusted her glasses. "There is slight inflammation in the epididymis, which explains his pain. The blood tests are also back. Testosterone levels... are very high, more than double that of males his age."
Shivani's breath caught slightly. "What does that mean?"
"Based on the semen analysis results—the sperm concentration and total volume in the sample are both abnormally high—I believe Rohan's condition is a rare physiological variation."
Dr. Carter chose her words carefully, "Simply put, his body produces semen at a rate far exceeding normal levels. Typically, men need several days or even a week to accumulate enough for one ejaculation, but Rohan may only need one or two days. When semen accumulates too quickly in the epididymis and vas deferens, it causes swelling, pain, and inflammation."
"So this isn't an illness?" There was a hint of hope in Shivani's voice.
"It's a physiological variation. While not a disease in the typical sense, the symptoms it causes need to be managed." Dr. Carter spoke seriously, "The current treatment plan involves anti-inflammatory medication to control the infection, along with..."
She paused, "Regular ejaculation to relieve the buildup. Given his production rate, I recommend at least once every two to three days."
Shivani felt dizzy.
Every two to three days? That forty-minute ordeal?
"Is there no other way? Surgery? Medication to suppress it?"
Dr. Carter shook her head, "For this kind of physiological variation, there's no standard surgical procedure. Testosterone-suppressing drugs could affect his overall development, and he's still in adolescence—the long-term side effects are unknown. Conservative treatment is currently the best option—anti-inflammatory medication plus regular ejaculation. As his body adapts to this high rate, the symptoms may naturally ease. We'll re-evaluate in a month."
The consultation room fell silent. Shivani's fingers unconsciously twisted the edge of her sari—that small habit had returned.
"Doctor," she finally spoke, her voice very low, "The last process... took too long. I mean, for a fifteen-year-old boy, forty minutes... is that normal?"
Dr. Carter's expression became subtle. She set down her pen, folding her hands on the desk.
"Typically, yes, that would be very unusual. But considering Rohan's unique physiological condition, along with the obvious psychological tension..." She weighed her words, "The duration might vary."
"He's too nervous... in front of me." Shivani looked directly into the doctor's eyes; saying this required immense courage. "Is it possible... for a professional to guide him? To shorten the time? You said psychological stress affects performance." This proud woman even used the formal address, clearly feeling truly helpless.
Dr. Carter visibly stiffened. Her gaze lingered on Shivani's face for a few seconds, then shifted to the window before returning.
"Mrs. Sharma, your request... this falls far beyond the scope of standard medical services."
"I'm willing to pay extra." Shivani's voice was calm and firm, the tone she used in business negotiations. "Far above standard rates, however many times, just name your price!"
Realizing her intensity, she immediately softened her tone, "I tried again at home... It's difficult for me alone. If there were a more efficient method, it would benefit his health and ease my... burden. That would be best."
Dr. Carter's fingers tapped lightly on the desk—a habit when she was thinking.
The consultation room was so quiet that the faint sound of air conditioning could be heard.
"If you insist," she finally said, a complex emotion in her voice, "I can try once. But there are a few conditions."
Shivani nodded.
"First, you cannot observe this time. Second, I need your written consent, clearly stating this is medical assistance. Third," Dr. Carter took a deep breath, "if at any point during this process I notice anything inappropriate, or if Rohan shows resistance, I will stop immediately."
"I agree," Shivani said without hesitation.
"Then, please sign here. Let Rohan come in—I need to speak with him alone."
After Shivani signed the documents, Dr. Carter instructed her female assistant to purchase something, while she herself led Rohan toward another, more private examination room.
Before closing the door, she glanced at Shivani—a look that was complex and hard to decipher. There was hesitation in it, and perhaps a trace of resignation, persuaded by the substantial payment.
The door closed and locked with a click...
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