Erotica Walvan in the past

[RajuWalvan]

Part 1

The village of Walvan lay quiet under the early summer haze, its red earth warm beneath bare feet and the tamarind trees swaying with the occasional gust. Dust rose from the narrow path as a bullock cart creaked forward, bearing a lone traveler — a young European student with ink-stained fingers and a mind brimming with questions.

Louis Deschamps had come to India not for monuments or scriptures, but for whispers — fragile stories passed between elders, tales that had escaped the notice of scholars. One such whisper had guided him here: a remote village where the breast, a symbol of nourishment, extended beyond the mother-child bond.

At the edge of Walvan, near a sprawling banyan tree, a young man in a crisp white dhoti awaited him. Lean, bright-eyed, and calm in posture, he had the confidence of someone deeply rooted.

"You must be Louis," he said in slow, careful English. "I am Ramesh."

Next to him stood his wife, Janaki — no more than twenty-two, with luminous almond eyes and sun-kissed skin, her marigold-yellow sari clinging to her slender frame in the humid air. Her smile was immediate and radiant.

"Welcome, welcome! You must be tired from the journey," she said, her English warm and melodic. "You look just like Ramesh described! Come — you must be hungry."

Louis blinked, caught off guard by her fluency. Ramesh grinned. "She’s been practicing english for your visit."

Janaki laughed, the sound like temple bells. "I wanted you to feel at home. Walvan is small, but our hearts are large. You must ask many questions, yes? We will show you everything." She pressed her breast to show him her cleavage.

Though married a year, the couple had no children yet. Still, as they walked down shaded lanes, Louis noted how children flocked to Janaki. Toddlers clutched at her fingers; older boys leaned in, giggling at her jokes. She had something for each of them — a teasing word, a lullaby line, a gentle tug on an ear. She gave freely, and the children absorbed her joy like sunlight.

At a curve in the path, a boy of about six ran up and clung to her waist, face pressed against her hip.

"Arrey, you again!" Janaki teased, crouching down. "Didn’t I feed you this morning? What mischief now?"

She lifted him easily, balancing him on her hip as she perched on a low stone wall. Louis watched curiously as she adjusted her pallu with one hand, revealing the curve of a full, beautiful breast. Her nipple, large and tender, sat at the center of a dusky areola, softened by the heat. Without hesitation, she brought the boy close. His lips parted instinctively, and he latched on, cheeks rounding as he began to suckle.

The sound was unmistakable: a slow, rhythmic pull, wet and purposeful. The boy’s eyelashes fluttered, his hands relaxed, his breath slowing to match the rhythm of nourishment. Janaki tilted slightly to support him better, cradling his head with her palm, fingers threading through his thick hair.

"They know I have milk," she said, looking up at Louis with a calm, confident smile. "Even though I’ve never had a baby of my own. Love makes milk too."

Louis stood frozen, caught between reverence and disbelief. He had studied symbolic feeding rituals, communal wet-nursing, and mother-lore across continents — but this was different. There was no ritual here, no performance. Just a woman feeding a child, in the open, with peace.

Ramesh, sensing Louis's awe, chuckled softly. "In our village," he said, "milk is for all."

Janaki nodded, still nursing, her voice both gentle and firm. "We share it. Like stories. Like mangoes in summer. Boys grow strong, and so do we. You are surprised, I think. But you will see — there is no shame in feeding love."

Her breast rose and fell with the boy’s rhythm. She switched sides when his sucking slowed, offering the other nipple without fuss. The boy, now flushed and heavy-lidded, reached for the new breast with greedy familiarity, lips sealing around it, tongue moving with instinctive coordination. Louis noticed the subtle shift — this breast released faster, and the child’s gulping quickened, his hands now patting gently at her side. He could even see the way the boy's jaw worked, the rhythmic movement of the tongue pressing against the nipple, drawing out the milk in pulses.

Janaki exhaled softly, brushing sweat from her temple with her free hand. There was no concealment, no apology — just life.

Louis nodded, breath caught in his throat. In this act — quiet, unannounced, without taboo — he saw something elemental. Kinship. Comfort. Continuity.

Later that day, as the light mellowed and shadows lengthened, they arrived at a modest home with mud walls and a thatched roof.

"There’s an old government house near the edge of the village," Louis offered hesitantly. "I could stay there. I don’t want to impose."

Ramesh waved it off. "That place? Full of bats and snakes. You’re staying with us."

"Yes, yes," Janaki added with a playful twinkle. "Here, you will be fed properly — maybe even a taste of my milk," she said with a mock-serious tone, laughter dancing in her eyes.

Louis laughed, a little red in the cheeks, uncertain whether she was joking or not. In Walvan, even the ordinary seemed to carry layers of meaning.

It wasn’t long before Louis observed more. Janaki, it turned out, also nursed her two young devars — Sanjeev and Sumit. Both boys, much older than the child she had fed earlier, would come by in the afternoons. Janaki greeted them with warmth, calling them with playful teasing. Without hesitation, each would take his place at her breast, sometimes one after the other, and other times, together. Her arms encircled them effortlessly, and she would speak to them gently as they suckled — sometimes singing, sometimes laughing.

Louis could hardly believe the comfort and naturalness of it all. There was no secrecy, no awkwardness. Just the quiet intimacy of care that seemed as vital as food and air in Walvan.

And he knew then — he had not come to study Walvan. He had come to be changed by it.

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 2

The scent of woodsmoke and steaming millet filled the cool morning air as Louis Deschamps settled into life in Ramesh and Janaki's modest home. Built of sun-dried clay and roofed with woven palm leaves, the home pulsed with simple vitality. Chickens clucked at the doorway, a cow lowed from a shaded corner, and children’s laughter rang from the backyard as if drawn by the first light.

Meals in Walvan were earthy and communal. Sitting cross-legged on mats, families shared coarse millet rotis, boiled roots, fermented rice, and chutneys crushed with chillies and herbs. Janaki served food to Louis with love, her hands working gracefully, adorned with thin red bangles. There were no individual plates — only leaf-lined trays from which everyone pinched their share. The food was humble, but rich with flavor and made with care.

Louis observed not just what they ate, but how they lived. Among the women, modesty was relative; some older village women went about their work bare-chested, their dark skin lined by sun and time. Younger women wore their saris loose, often with the pallu down or tucked at the waist. It was not careless; it was comfort — a practicality born from heat and tradition.

Men too wore minimal clothing — dhotis or lungis tied loosely, torsos bare in the sun. He had seen more penises here than anywhere. No one appeared ashamed. Bodies were not hidden, nor flaunted. They simply were.

What struck Louis most, however, was the intimacy of nourishment. Feeding, he learned, was not bound strictly to infancy. Several boys, clearly beyond teen years — some even adults — still suckled at their mothers or aunts.

In the shade of a mango tree, Louis once saw a boy of perhaps 30 resting his head against his aunt's lap. With quiet ease, she adjusted her sari and offered her breast. He latched without embarrassment, his long legs drawn beneath him. She stroked his hair and spoke with another woman as though nothing unusual was happening.

"We feed until they no longer ask," Janaki explained to Louis later. "Why should love end early?"

At first, Louis felt the old stirrings of cultural shock, but the longer he stayed, the more he noticed: these children were calm, bonded, confident. There was no secrecy, no shame. Only care.

He filled his journal with notes. But increasingly, he felt he wasn’t just recording a custom. He was glimpsing a rhythm of life he had never known — where closeness, not distance, defined growing up.

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 3

The sun filtered softly through the neem and gulmohar trees as Janaki led Louis through the winding footpaths of Walvan. Dressed in a fresh indigo sari and anklets that chimed softly as she walked, Janaki was both guide and gatekeeper to a world that Louis had only begun to understand.

"Today you will meet my friends," she said cheerfully, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "They’re more curious than you are, so be ready."

Their path took them past mud-walled homes with open courtyards. Women sat on charpoys or low stools, grinding spices, combing each other's hair, or rhythmically tapping clothes against stones at the communal well. Most wore their saris loosely, upper bodies exposed without self-consciousness. The scene was alive with chatter and ease, and the children, many unclothed or barely dressed, darted freely among goats and chickens.

When they reached a shaded verandah, a group of women sprang to their feet, throwing their arms around Janaki and greeting her with boisterous joy. Their eyes soon turned to Louis, who paused uncertainly, notebook in hand, standing out with his tall frame and fair skin.

One matronly woman leaned close to Janaki and whispered — not quietly enough — "Arrey, Janaki! This one is too white — like moonlight on the river!"

Another, younger, darker-skinned with lively eyes, grinned openly. "He’s more beautiful than half the brides we see! Who gave him those eyes? We must thank their gods."

A ripple of laughter spread, and another voice piped in, more brazen, "If he stays longer, someone will steal him and tuck him into their cot."

"Why not?" a bold, almond-eyed girl said, walking up to Louis and looking him over without restraint. "I wouldn’t mind giving him a baby. He has the hips for it!"

That comment set off a fresh wave of laughter. Janaki threw her head back and clapped her hands. Louis flushed deep crimson, unsure if he had been complimented, mocked, or propositioned.

Then, one of the younger women — tall, with smooth skin and a half-sari carelessly tied — sauntered closer. Her breast was partially exposed, as was typical here, but she made no move to adjust it as she tilted her head and looked up at him. "You must be thirsty from all this walking, gora sahib," she said sweetly. "Would you like to taste village milk? Fresh from the source." She said cupping her large breast in hand.

There was a stunned silence, then roaring laughter erupted around them. One woman laughed so hard she nearly dropped the clay pot she was carrying. Another playfully nudged the speaker. "You’ll make him faint!"

Janaki doubled over, clutching her side. "He’s our guest, not your child! Control yourself!"

Louis tried to smile, red-faced and stunned. The women's openness, their comfort in their bodies, and the effortless way they merged teasing with warmth overwhelmed him. There was no malice, only mirth and a kind of generous boldness.

"You speak of such things so easily," Louis finally said, chuckling awkwardly. "In my country, people would faint from such jokes."

One older woman laughed gently and placed a sweet in his palm. "Here, eat something, gora beta. We share what we have — even our bodies, if there’s a need. No shame in milk, no shame in comfort."

As they continued their visit, Janaki led him through alleyways and compounds, introducing him to women who casually nursed infants and older children alike. Louis was stunned to see some children well over eighteen still approaching their mothers or aunts and being suckled with the same ease as toddlers. It was not hidden. Women simply adjusted their saris, drawing their child near as if pouring a drink of water. The children nestled in without hesitation.

He saw one man, lanky and nearly old, lean against a lady and begin sucking as she discussed grain prices with her neighbor. She stroked his hair absentmindedly while her other hand shelled peas.

Everywhere Louis looked, the body was not veiled but offered — in care, in laughter, in sustenance.

Later that night, by the dim oil lamp, he scribbled into his journal: “The village welcomes with its eyes, its hands, and its breasts. Nothing is hidden. Even their jokes speak to a comfort with the body — mine included. It is not lewd. It is not performative. It is simply life — lived with the body, not in shame of it.”

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 4

The soft morning light spilled through the bamboo shades of the hut, casting golden lines across the packed mud floor. Outside, the village had already begun to stir — the sound of goats bleating, metal vessels clanking, and women calling out to one another filled the air.

Inside the small guest room, Louis still slept soundly on the simple cot laid out for him. Ramesh had gone early to the fields, as was his routine, leaving Janaki to tend to the morning chores and, eventually, wake their foreign guest.

She approached the room quietly, balancing a brass tumbler of warm water. "Louis babu," she called softly, peeking in with a smile. But her steps halted at the doorway.

To her surprise, Louis was sprawled on his back, his light cotton lungi pushed up carelessly to his waist, exposing his pale hips and erect penis to the open air. The fair skin of his penis almost glowed in the warm light, unaccustomed to the sun. More amusingly, his hand was resting near his cheek, and his thumb was firmly inside his mouth — he was sucking on it like a child.

Janaki’s eyes widened in surprise, but then she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Hai re! Just like a baby," she whispered to herself, clearly entertained.

She stepped in with exaggerated care, still giggling. "Sahib! Wake up! Or you’ll burn in this sun like a papad!" she called teasingly.

Louis stirred, blinking groggily, then quickly sat up as he realized how he was lying. Flustered, he pulled down his lungi and tried to gather his dignity.

"Oh—sorry—good morning," he muttered, cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson.

Janaki only laughed louder. "So fair and soft, like milk! Even down there! No wonder the girls keep teasing you. Thumb-sucking and all! Maybe you need feeding more than my young devars!"

She bent slightly, still smiling. "And listen, if you ever want to stop that filthy habit of sucking your thumb, you can come to me and ask me to let you suck my nipple. Hmph, such a big man, lying like a baby!"

She chuckled and added warmly, "You're same to me anyway, Louis. If you really need, I can feed you too. Nothing to feel shy about in this village."

Louis gave a sheepish grin, rubbing his eyes. "I didn’t mean to... must have been the dreams."

"Next time I’ll bring a cradle instead of a bed," she teased, leaving the tumbler by his side. "Get ready, sahib. Today we visit the eastern fields — and no sleeping like a baby in front of village women!"

Her laughter echoed outside as she stepped away, leaving Louis both embarrassed and oddly amused. He had come to study a culture — but it seemed the culture had begun studying him just as closely.

 

[dubukh]

Louis an exchange student came to study about the milk giving directly from source village. Finally Janaki saw his white dick , she even offered him her breasts for sucking milk

What will happen next? Please continue bro

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 5

Later that morning, Louis followed Janaki along a narrow dirt path flanked by tall stalks of jowar and golden marigolds. The sun had risen higher now, warming the earth and casting long shadows across the huts. Children played barefoot, and women sat outside their homes weaving baskets or pounding grain.

"We’re going to see Durgamma," Janaki said with a glint in her eye, adjusting the end of her cotton saree over her shoulder. "She’s the strongest woman here. Lost her husband years ago, but she runs the whole house like a queen."

They arrived at a modest thatched home shaded by a neem tree. A broad-shouldered woman, bare-footed and radiating confidence, was grinding spices on a flat stone. Her thick braid, streaked with gray, hung down her back. Her eyes sparkled when she saw them.

"Ay Janaki! And this must be your gora friend! Come, come, beta," she beckoned, wiping her hands on her saree. "I’m Durgamma. Don’t be shy."

Louis folded his hands politely. "Namaste."

"Namaste, babu," she replied warmly. "You’ve come to study us? Then don’t just ask. Watch how we live. Here, we use our whole bodies to care for our people. Even our breasts."

Janaki laughed, nudging Louis. "She’s serious. Durgamma feeds her children, her three devars, and even her father-in-law. Her breasts are never free."

"Why should it be?" Durgamma said proudly. "My milk binds this family together. I’ve fed them since they were boys, and they never stopped."

As she spoke, one of her devars stepped out—a tall, wiry man in his twenties. Without hesitation, he knelt before her. Durgamma sat cross-legged on a charpai, pulled her blouse open, and guided his mouth to her full breast. Louis caught the moment his lips sealed around her dark areola, his cheeks hollowing gently with each pull.

Soon, a second man joined and took the other side. Durgamma supported both men against her soft, warm chest, their bodies resting against her thighs as she cradled their heads. The intimacy of the moment was striking, yet her expression remained serene, almost meditative. Their mouths worked rhythmically—one tugged quickly, the other slower, more savoring.

Louis stared, breath caught in his chest. His fingers froze around his notebook. Never had he witnessed such a raw, physical, unapologetic act of care.

Janaki, seated beside him, chuckled. "Don't gape so much, sahib. You’ll hurt your neck. We see this daily."

The third devar appeared in the doorway, hovering uncertainly. His eyes shifted from his brothers to Durgamma, who gave him a warm smile but raised her palms—she was already full. Without waiting, Janaki rose, untied the knot of her blouse, and let it fall. Her breast, firm and full, jiggled slightly as she leaned forward.

"Come," she said, and the man gratefully approached. She guided his mouth with ease, one hand cupping his head, the other resting on his shoulder. His lips latched eagerly, and she let out a soft, content sigh.

Louis’s throat went dry. The scene was alive with breath and warmth. The air was filled with soft sucking sounds, the occasional sigh, and the faint creak of the charpai.

Durgamma glanced at him with a smile. "We don’t hide. We give. And in return, we’re cared for. I’m wife to all my devars. I cook for them, feed them, even have sex with them when they need. This is my power."

Louis finally raised his notebook again, hand trembling slightly. But words felt thin, inadequate.

After a while, the men pulled back, their eyes heavy-lidded and calm. They wiped their mouths with the ends of their kurtas, murmuring thanks.

Durgamma stood, adjusted her blouse, and turned toward Louis. "And what about you, babu? You’ve seen enough? Or would you like to feel why they stay close to me?"

Louis blinked, unsure if she was joking. She walked to him, placed a hand on his cheek, and laughed softly. "Don’t worry, I don’t bite. But I don’t have milk left now. Still, if you want, I can offer you warmth."

Janaki burst into laughter. "Careful, Durgamma. He’s not used to such hospitality!"

Louis blushed, but before he could respond, Durgamma chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Maybe next time, gora babu. When there’s milk."

Janaki added, teasing, "If you stay long, you might suckle better than my devars."

Louis flushed deeper and scribbled into his notebook, overwhelmed yet again—not just by the openness, but by the kindness woven into every act of giving.

 

[dubukh]

Wow, the powerful durgamma has even done sex with her 3 devars, it's very very interesting. Please continue bro

 

[titsucker]

More than a week since last update, when we will get the next update.

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 6

As the afternoon sun began to mellow into golden warmth, Louis and Janaki walked the winding path back toward her home. The fields whispered in the breeze, and the scent of cow dung and drying grain lingered in the air. Louis still felt the heaviness of the morning’s visit with Durgamma—a sensory experience etched deeply into his thoughts.

When they reached the small, mud-plastered home, Janaki's two young devars, Sanjeev and Sumit, were already waiting in the front courtyard. Both boys, lean and tanned from the sun, brightened at the sight of Janaki.

Before even greeting Louis, they rushed up to her. She chuckled, untying the end of her saree from her waist. “Arrey, at least let me sit down first!”

But the boys had other needs. With a sigh that was more amusement than complaint, Janaki gently adjusted her blouse, pulling it aside. Her breasts, full and heavy from constant feeding, swayed slightly as she bared them. The skin was smooth and taut, with dark areolas slightly puffy from recent nursing. She cupped one in each hand and leaned slightly forward. Sanjeev latched on first, standing straight-backed and calm, while Sumit nestled in from the other side. Their mouths moved in steady rhythm, cheeks flexing with practiced ease.

Louis stood frozen just inside the threshold, notebook slack in his hand. The scene was so casual—so utterly familiar to them—and yet so boldly intimate.

Janaki looked up at him and laughed. “What? You’ve seen them feed before.”

“Yes,” Louis managed. “But… like this?”

“They don’t wait,” she said, ruffling Sumit’s hair. “Sometimes they come to me even when I’m cooking. Like little shadows always hungry. You should see them when they’re more desperate, humping between my leg like bulls.”

Louis flushed, his mouth parting slightly at the bluntness.

Janaki winked. “Oh don’t be shy, sahib. It’s all part of growing boys. And I’d rather they come to me than develop strange habits.” She said reaching out to hold Louis penis.

She stroked his penis between her fingers. The boys fed for several minutes, resting their foreheads gently against her chest. Janaki held their heads with quiet affection, occasionally adjusting their position as their sucking slowed. When they finally pulled back, milk dribbled from the corners of their mouths. They wiped it with the backs of their hands and gave Janaki sleepy, contented smiles.

Only then did Janaki turn to Louis fully. “Come in now. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think you should loose your hold on my penis, I have already came twice” Louis said softly, “I’ve experienced my first touch today something, very sacred.”

Janaki grinned. “Then you’re starting to understand.” She cupped his balls over his lungi and placed a kiss on his lips, playful. “You know, Louis… if you’re still curious, I can let you try. You look more innocent than these two sometimes.”

Louis blinked, startled. “You mean—”

She raised an eyebrow teasingly, then sat on the cot, one breast still bare, the other tucked back beneath her blouse. “Come if you like. There’s no shame here. You’re like one of us now.”

Something unspoken passed between them—trust, openness, an invitation to experience, not intrude. Louis, heart pounding, stepped closer. He knelt, hesitating only briefly, then leaned in. His lips found her nipple, and Janaki gently cradled the back of his head.

The warmth of her skin, the slow flow of milk, the rhythm of breathing—it overwhelmed him. Janaki chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “See? Not so strange after all.”

Louis pulled back after a moment, dazed but not ashamed. He looked at her with newfound reverence.

“You’re kind,” he whispered. “And braver than most I’ve met.”

Janaki smiled. “We’re village women, Babu. Our bodies aren’t secrets—they’re life.”
"I would like to explore your pale body one day", she said watching him suck her nipples while stroking his penis in one hand.

 

[RajuWalvan]

Part 7

The night air in Walvan was still, thick with the scent of firewood and tamarind. Inside the mud-walled home, the clatter of dishes had quieted. Janaki had finished serving dinner to her family—Ramesh, his mother, and their two young devars. Louis had also joined them, seated cross-legged on a reed mat, politely tired from the day’s village explorations.

Everyone had eaten well. The rice and lentils were simple but hearty, the vegetables rich with mustard seeds and curry leaves. Janaki now sat near the hearth, the shadows of the fire flickering across her warm, expressive face.

Ramesh leaned back against the wall, sipping water from a brass tumbler. “Ma,” he said casually, “when do you think we’ll have a little one running around?”

His mother chuckled, glancing at Louis. “When you do, may the child be as fair and kind as this one.”

The group laughed, Louis among them, his cheeks glowing pink. But Ramesh’s laughter lingered longer than the rest, and his gaze returned often to his wife.

Later that night, Louis remained in the outer room with a dim oil lamp. Janaki returned, smiling softly, and settled beside him. She untied her saree’s upper pleats and let the cloth fall, her chest bare. She cradled one breast in her hand, guiding it toward him.

Louis, without hesitation, leaned forward and latched on. His lips were full and soft, and the paleness of his skin glowed in the low light. His mouth formed a perfect seal around her nipple, and his cheeks moved with a gentle, practiced rhythm. Janaki exhaled a soft sigh, her fingers brushing through his hair, marveling at the contrast between his porcelain complexion and her darker skin.

Ramesh entered the room silently, observing for a moment. He sat down on the floor beside Janaki and rested a hand on her leg.

“He feeds like he belongs to you,” Ramesh said quietly.

Janaki smiled. “He does. In many ways.”

Ramesh looked at Louis closely—his smooth skin, his gentle demeanor, the subtle beauty in his lashes and the curve of his lips. There was something angelic in his features, something that stirred a quiet longing.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ramesh continued, his voice lower now. “What if Louis fathered our child?”

Louis paused for a moment, surprised, nipple slipping from his lips. Janaki held him gently, nodding toward him with affection.

“He’s young, healthy, and kind. He’s learned our ways. I care for him deeply,” she said.

Ramesh nodded. “We’d raise the child as ours. It would be born of trust and affection. No secrets. Just shared life.”

Janaki looked back at Louis. “He has not been with a women. He is too young to understand.”

Louis looked between them, unsure, but moved. “Are you both talking about me,”

Janaki reached out and cupped his cheek. “No, Babu. My husband is admiring your sucking.”

She drew him gently back to her breast, while Ramesh rested beside her, one hand placed warmly on her thigh, the other now gently stroking her hair. "We should make him want you Janaki"

The fire crackled softly in the corner as the night folded around them, filled with quiet understanding and shared intent.