Village Women Fucking with Bottle gourd Part 2

The Village Women’s Bottle Gourd Fucking: Part 2

In the sultry Indian countryside, where the sun-drenched fields stretch endlessly towards the horizon and the air hangs heavy with the scent of earth and desire, a group of villagers gathered for an annual ritual loaded with erotic undertones. The day of the Bottle Gourd Fucking Festival had arrived, drawing a motley crew of locals, from the timid village maidens to the most seasoned widows, all of them hungry for a taste of forbidden pleasure.

The festival started innocently enough, with the women selecting the plumpest, longest bottle gourds from the market stalls. They held them aloft, appraising their size and girth, much like a man would peruse a lineup of hopeful prostitutes. A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd as the most sucking gourds were chosen, their phallic shapes betraying the sinful purpose they were about to serve.

But this was no ordinary festival, and the chosen women soon realized the perverse expectations placed upon their considerable charms. In a secluded clearing bordered by banana trees, the villagers waited, their eyes smoldering with lust and a perverse hunger to witness what was about to unfold.

The women, now naked save for their colorful bangles and anklets, moved into a circle. They presented their lush, ripe bodies for all to ogle, a moving forest of curves, dimples and tanned skin. Their generous breasts, heavy and ripe for the plucking, were inspected by eager hands, as the villagers marveled at the weight and warmth of the abundant flesh.

One by one, the women knelt, spreading their legs wide as they displayed their glistening labias to the crowd. Some sported neat thatches of neatly trimmed hair, while others flaunted their expensive, salon-acquired Brazilian wax jobs. The villagers gasped as the women began, tentatively at first, to stroke their eager nethers, spreading the juices and drawing out the needy tissue.

And then came the gourds, presented on trays, smuggled by a freckle-faced urchin, the village chief’s youngest son. His eyes were round watching the women drink their fill of the drugged chai, eyes glazing with lust. He watched as the oldest widow, a pillar of the community, stepped forward, the biggest gourd in her frail, papery hands.

With a practiced air, she lifted the gourd to her swollen, pendulous breasts and began to rub them, coating the surface with her translucent fluids. The crowd gasped as she inserted the gourd between the two mounds, then began a lewd massage, thrusting the bulbous end through the course hair surrounding her nipples.

The other women, now sufficiently aroused, began fucking themselves with their own gourds, thrusting them into their eager cunts, pseudococks plugging their orifices. The sights, sounds and smells of female arousal filled the clearing, driving the men to frenzy, their cocks bulging obscenely beneath their lungis.

The women at the forefront of the circle were now in a drug-induced lust, their hair disheveled, breasts heaving as they fucked themselves into a frenzy, gourds thrust deep into their wet, eager openings. Sapphic screams of pleasure filled the air, as the women began licking, sucking and mauling each other, gorging on their neighbors’ cunts.

The men, now stroke themselves in public, shame and piety cast aside in the face of such an erotic display. They drank chai, smoking beedis as they watched, faces contorted in a rictus of lust. The village chief, once a proud man, now humped the nearest tree, the rough bark painful against his engorged tool.

Finally, as the sun began to set scarlet in the sky, injecting an almost mockingly sybaritic mood, the women satisfied, lay amidst a forest of gourds, both wooden and literal, the air heavy with the pheromones of lust. The men, spent and gratified, returned to the village, home to their wives, knowing that a part of them, a dark, perverted part would forever revel in this secret rite, in this day when hags, virgins and matrons joined as one, fucking gourds, fucking each other, fucking all notion of innocent allure.

And so the cycle began anew each spring, the village women, once shy and demure, shedding their inhibitions to become lustful goddesses for a day. Lost boys became discreet guardians of the gourds, the chai was strengthened with secret ingredients. Husbands shared their wives. Wives shared each other. For one glorious day, everything was permissible, nothing taboo in the name of sexual catharsis.

And the loop went on, a perverse day of lust, deviance, andTargets in the lush fields of the village, with the gourds, the chai and the women – the only important elements of this festival, indulged so only a privileged, but complicit few could imagine. This was the day the village women fucked the bottle gourds, and in doing so, fucked the norm, and in extension, fucked the world.