The gravel crunched under the jeep’s tires as Ashu stepped out at the portico of the old coffee estate bungalow. Four years away in Bangalore had turned the lanky boy into something dangerous: six-foot-two, shoulders wide from gym and hostel boxing, skin sun-browned, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes dark and quiet like still water over deep places. The moment he straightened, the air itself seemed to pause.
Sixty-five families worked these hills, and word had flown faster than the mynah birds: the young thambiran was coming home.
Women stopped in the drying yard, coffee baskets forgotten on their heads. A nineteen-year-old worker named Selvi actually felt her knees buckle; the older ones—married, widowed, grandmothers—pressed thighs together beneath their sarees and felt the old familiar ache bloom again. One whisper rippled through the rows of silver-oak: “Look at him… our little Ashu is a man now.”
But inside the house, the real welcome waited.
Lakshmi Amma (fifty-five, golden-skinned, heavy-breasted, the living image of Julia Ann in her prime) stood at the threshold in a thin white cotton saree that had gone almost transparent in the afternoon humidity. Her nipples, dark and thick, pressed visibly against the cloth. She had not worn a blouse in years; no one in the house dared tell the matriarch what was proper anymore. When she saw him, her hand flew to the swell of her bosom, breath catching.
“Ashu… my lion,” she said, voice trembling with pride and something far less innocent.
Behind her, Revathi (thirty-seven, abandoned wife, Connie Carter’s lush body poured into a bottle-green silk saree) actually swayed. Four years of lonely nights, of fingers between her thighs pretending they were her son’s, rushed back in a single heartbeat. Her pallu slipped; the deep valley of her cleavage glistened with nervous sweat. She didn’t fix it.
Priya ( Mia Azul reborn in dusky skin) let out a small, helpless sound and ran straight into his arms, pressing the full, ripe weight of her teenage breasts against his chest. Her skirt had ridden high; he felt the heat of her bare thighs against his jeans.
Ananya (, Lucy Li’s impossible curves on a collegegirl frame) hung back only a second, cheeks flaming, then threw herself at him too, arms around his waist, face buried in his shirt, inhaling the city smell of him like it might disappear.
They dragged him inside, four pairs of hands touching, stroking, claiming.
In the cool, dim drawing room scented with cardamom and old teak, Lakshmi Amma cupped his face. “Look what the city has given us back,” she murmured, thumbs brushing his lips. “Every woman from here to the river is wet for you today, thambi. But only we get to taste.”
Revathi’s voice was hoarse. “I bathed twice this morning,” she confessed, stepping close enough that her heavy breasts flattened against his chest. “I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking… he’ll see me now, really see me. A woman, not just Amma.” Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling. “Tell me you thought of us too. Tell me you’re hard for your own mother.”
Priya laughed, low and wicked, already sliding her palms under his shirt to feel the ridges of his stomach. “He’s hard, Amma. Feel.” She took Revathi’s trembling hand and pressed it to the front of his jeans. Revathi moaned aloud at the thick, pulsing proof of her son’s hunger.
Ananya, sweetest and youngest, dropped to her knees right there on the Persian carpet. “I practiced, anna,” she whispered, looking up with huge, wet eyes. “On bananas, on cucumbers from the kitchen garden… I wanted to be ready for you.” Her small hands worked his belt with shocking eagerness.
Lakshmi Amma smiled like a queen watching her kingdom surrender. She let her saree fall. Nothing underneath. The heavy sway of her breasts, the soft golden belly, the dark, glossy triangle between her thighs—everything offered. “We have four years to make up for, my grandson,” she said. “And we are greedy women.”
They moved as one toward the master bedroom—the huge four-poster that had once belonged to Ashu’s grandfather. Silk sheets had been changed that morning, jasmine garlands laid like offerings.
Revathi pushed him gently onto the bed, climbing over him, saree riding up to reveal she wore nothing beneath either. “I stopped wearing panties the day you left for college,” she confessed against his mouth. “Every breeze on the plantation reminded me of you.”
Priya and Ananya peeled his clothes away with soft, reverent cries, kissing every new inch of skin revealed—collarbone, chest, the deep V of his abdomen, the heavy, aching length that sprang free and made all four women gasp in unison.
Lakshmi Amma knelt at the foot of the bed, spreading her thighs wide so he could see how ready she was, silver in her hair but slick and pink and open like a girl. “Start with your grandmother,” she commanded softly. “Start with the oldest fruit on this tree. Then work your way down—mother, elder sister, baby sister. We have waited in order of age and ache.”
Outside, the plantation workers pretended to tend the bushes, but every woman knew what was happening inside the big house. Some touched themselves beneath mundus, biting back moans. Others simply smiled at the sky, content to know their young thambiran was finally, fully home.
Inside, the bedroom filled with the sounds of devotion: wet mouths, broken prayers in Malayalam, the creak of old teak as four voluptuous bodies welcomed their king with every inch of skin they possessed.
The coffee blossoms had opened that week, filling the valley with sweetness.
And in the heart of the estate, so had they.
The jeep’s engine died with a cough, and for a moment the only sound was the wind moving through the coffee bushes like a slow tide. Ashu stood beside the open door, suitcase still in hand, heart suddenly too large for his chest. Four years. Four monsoons, four Onams, four birthdays celebrated over crackling video calls that never lasted long enough. The city had taught him to stand tall, to smile politely, to hide homesickness behind jokes. Here, none of that armour worked. The smell of wet red earth and roasted coffee beans punched straight through him.
He looked up at the veranda and felt his throat tighten.
Lakshmi Amma was first, as always. Fifty-five, spine straight as the silver-oak trunks she had planted with her own hands, a simple cream saree tucked neatly, yet somehow clinging to every generous curve. The afternoon light turned her skin golden, and the small diamond in her nose flashed like a private signal meant only for him. In her mind:
He has his grandfather’s shoulders now. Look at the way he carries the weight of the world already. I swore I would never cry again after my husband died, but my eyes are treacherous today. My boy. My last lion.
Revathi stood half a step behind, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Thirty-seven years old, widowed in all but name for twelve, she had aged into a softer, fuller beauty—hips rounder from years of worry and filter coffee, breasts heavy with milk that never came, eyes permanently gentle from forgiving the world for taking her husband away. Inside her head, a storm:
I dressed three times this morning. The green saree made me look too eager, the blue too mournful. I finally chose this maroon because he once said it was his favourite when he was ten. Twelve years without a man’s footsteps in this house, and now the floorboards will remember how to sing. Please God, let him not see how my hands shake. Let him only feel how much I love him.
Priya, young going on thirty, leaned against the pillar trying to look casual and failing completely. Tall like her brother, skin the colour of fresh coconut milk, long hair still damp from the bath she had taken twice “just in case”. She had grown into her body the way coffee berries swell before harvest—suddenly, abundantly. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt.
He’s taller than I remembered. And quieter. The city made him beautiful the way a knife is beautiful—sharp, clean, dangerous to hold. I used to steal his shirts when he left for college; I slept in them until Amma found out. I wonder if he’ll notice I still smell like him sometimes.
Ananya, , hovered at the very edge of the steps, half-hidden behind her mother’s pallu. The youngest, always the baby, now suddenly curved in places that made the village boys stammer. She clutched a small garland of jasmine she had strung herself at dawn, fingers trembling so badly the flowers threatened to spill. In her mind, only one looping thought:
Anna is home, anna is home, anna is home. I counted the days on the wall behind the calendar. I practised saying “welcome home” in English so I would sound grown-up. Please don’t let my voice crack. Please let him hug me the way he used to when I was small and he was my whole world.
Ashu dropped the suitcase. The thud sounded too loud in the stillness.
He took the steps two at a time, and then they were all moving at once—slow-motion collision of arms and tears and murmured blessings. Lakshmi Amma’s hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing the new stubble, eyes searching his for any trace of the little boy who used to fall asleep on her lap during power cuts. Revathi’s embrace was longer, almost fearful, as though letting go might make him vanish again. Priya hung on to his arm like she used to when they were children and thunder scared her. Ananya pressed the jasmine garland into his hand, then buried her face in his shirt, breathing him in as if air itself had been missing these four years.
He smelled of city soap and train journeys and something indefinably male that made every woman on the veranda feel the absence of men in this house like a sudden draught.
Revathi finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her pallu, trying to laugh. “Look at us, crying like fools. Come, come inside, the coffee is getting cold.”
But her heart whispered: Stay close. Don’t go far again. The nights are too long without your footsteps.
Sixty-five families worked these hills, and word had flown faster than the mynah birds: the young thambiran was coming home.
Women stopped in the drying yard, coffee baskets forgotten on their heads. A nineteen-year-old worker named Selvi actually felt her knees buckle; the older ones—married, widowed, grandmothers—pressed thighs together beneath their sarees and felt the old familiar ache bloom again. One whisper rippled through the rows of silver-oak: “Look at him… our little Ashu is a man now.”
But inside the house, the real welcome waited.
Lakshmi Amma (fifty-five, golden-skinned, heavy-breasted, the living image of Julia Ann in her prime) stood at the threshold in a thin white cotton saree that had gone almost transparent in the afternoon humidity. Her nipples, dark and thick, pressed visibly against the cloth. She had not worn a blouse in years; no one in the house dared tell the matriarch what was proper anymore. When she saw him, her hand flew to the swell of her bosom, breath catching.
“Ashu… my lion,” she said, voice trembling with pride and something far less innocent.
Behind her, Revathi (thirty-seven, abandoned wife, Connie Carter’s lush body poured into a bottle-green silk saree) actually swayed. Four years of lonely nights, of fingers between her thighs pretending they were her son’s, rushed back in a single heartbeat. Her pallu slipped; the deep valley of her cleavage glistened with nervous sweat. She didn’t fix it.
Priya ( Mia Azul reborn in dusky skin) let out a small, helpless sound and ran straight into his arms, pressing the full, ripe weight of her teenage breasts against his chest. Her skirt had ridden high; he felt the heat of her bare thighs against his jeans.
Ananya (, Lucy Li’s impossible curves on a collegegirl frame) hung back only a second, cheeks flaming, then threw herself at him too, arms around his waist, face buried in his shirt, inhaling the city smell of him like it might disappear.
They dragged him inside, four pairs of hands touching, stroking, claiming.
In the cool, dim drawing room scented with cardamom and old teak, Lakshmi Amma cupped his face. “Look what the city has given us back,” she murmured, thumbs brushing his lips. “Every woman from here to the river is wet for you today, thambi. But only we get to taste.”
Revathi’s voice was hoarse. “I bathed twice this morning,” she confessed, stepping close enough that her heavy breasts flattened against his chest. “I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking… he’ll see me now, really see me. A woman, not just Amma.” Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling. “Tell me you thought of us too. Tell me you’re hard for your own mother.”
Priya laughed, low and wicked, already sliding her palms under his shirt to feel the ridges of his stomach. “He’s hard, Amma. Feel.” She took Revathi’s trembling hand and pressed it to the front of his jeans. Revathi moaned aloud at the thick, pulsing proof of her son’s hunger.
Ananya, sweetest and youngest, dropped to her knees right there on the Persian carpet. “I practiced, anna,” she whispered, looking up with huge, wet eyes. “On bananas, on cucumbers from the kitchen garden… I wanted to be ready for you.” Her small hands worked his belt with shocking eagerness.
Lakshmi Amma smiled like a queen watching her kingdom surrender. She let her saree fall. Nothing underneath. The heavy sway of her breasts, the soft golden belly, the dark, glossy triangle between her thighs—everything offered. “We have four years to make up for, my grandson,” she said. “And we are greedy women.”
They moved as one toward the master bedroom—the huge four-poster that had once belonged to Ashu’s grandfather. Silk sheets had been changed that morning, jasmine garlands laid like offerings.
Revathi pushed him gently onto the bed, climbing over him, saree riding up to reveal she wore nothing beneath either. “I stopped wearing panties the day you left for college,” she confessed against his mouth. “Every breeze on the plantation reminded me of you.”
Priya and Ananya peeled his clothes away with soft, reverent cries, kissing every new inch of skin revealed—collarbone, chest, the deep V of his abdomen, the heavy, aching length that sprang free and made all four women gasp in unison.
Lakshmi Amma knelt at the foot of the bed, spreading her thighs wide so he could see how ready she was, silver in her hair but slick and pink and open like a girl. “Start with your grandmother,” she commanded softly. “Start with the oldest fruit on this tree. Then work your way down—mother, elder sister, baby sister. We have waited in order of age and ache.”
Outside, the plantation workers pretended to tend the bushes, but every woman knew what was happening inside the big house. Some touched themselves beneath mundus, biting back moans. Others simply smiled at the sky, content to know their young thambiran was finally, fully home.
Inside, the bedroom filled with the sounds of devotion: wet mouths, broken prayers in Malayalam, the creak of old teak as four voluptuous bodies welcomed their king with every inch of skin they possessed.
The coffee blossoms had opened that week, filling the valley with sweetness.
And in the heart of the estate, so had they.
The jeep’s engine died with a cough, and for a moment the only sound was the wind moving through the coffee bushes like a slow tide. Ashu stood beside the open door, suitcase still in hand, heart suddenly too large for his chest. Four years. Four monsoons, four Onams, four birthdays celebrated over crackling video calls that never lasted long enough. The city had taught him to stand tall, to smile politely, to hide homesickness behind jokes. Here, none of that armour worked. The smell of wet red earth and roasted coffee beans punched straight through him.
He looked up at the veranda and felt his throat tighten.
Lakshmi Amma was first, as always. Fifty-five, spine straight as the silver-oak trunks she had planted with her own hands, a simple cream saree tucked neatly, yet somehow clinging to every generous curve. The afternoon light turned her skin golden, and the small diamond in her nose flashed like a private signal meant only for him. In her mind:
He has his grandfather’s shoulders now. Look at the way he carries the weight of the world already. I swore I would never cry again after my husband died, but my eyes are treacherous today. My boy. My last lion.
Revathi stood half a step behind, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Thirty-seven years old, widowed in all but name for twelve, she had aged into a softer, fuller beauty—hips rounder from years of worry and filter coffee, breasts heavy with milk that never came, eyes permanently gentle from forgiving the world for taking her husband away. Inside her head, a storm:
I dressed three times this morning. The green saree made me look too eager, the blue too mournful. I finally chose this maroon because he once said it was his favourite when he was ten. Twelve years without a man’s footsteps in this house, and now the floorboards will remember how to sing. Please God, let him not see how my hands shake. Let him only feel how much I love him.
Priya, young going on thirty, leaned against the pillar trying to look casual and failing completely. Tall like her brother, skin the colour of fresh coconut milk, long hair still damp from the bath she had taken twice “just in case”. She had grown into her body the way coffee berries swell before harvest—suddenly, abundantly. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt.
He’s taller than I remembered. And quieter. The city made him beautiful the way a knife is beautiful—sharp, clean, dangerous to hold. I used to steal his shirts when he left for college; I slept in them until Amma found out. I wonder if he’ll notice I still smell like him sometimes.
Ananya, , hovered at the very edge of the steps, half-hidden behind her mother’s pallu. The youngest, always the baby, now suddenly curved in places that made the village boys stammer. She clutched a small garland of jasmine she had strung herself at dawn, fingers trembling so badly the flowers threatened to spill. In her mind, only one looping thought:
Anna is home, anna is home, anna is home. I counted the days on the wall behind the calendar. I practised saying “welcome home” in English so I would sound grown-up. Please don’t let my voice crack. Please let him hug me the way he used to when I was small and he was my whole world.
Ashu dropped the suitcase. The thud sounded too loud in the stillness.
He took the steps two at a time, and then they were all moving at once—slow-motion collision of arms and tears and murmured blessings. Lakshmi Amma’s hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing the new stubble, eyes searching his for any trace of the little boy who used to fall asleep on her lap during power cuts. Revathi’s embrace was longer, almost fearful, as though letting go might make him vanish again. Priya hung on to his arm like she used to when they were children and thunder scared her. Ananya pressed the jasmine garland into his hand, then buried her face in his shirt, breathing him in as if air itself had been missing these four years.
He smelled of city soap and train journeys and something indefinably male that made every woman on the veranda feel the absence of men in this house like a sudden draught.
Revathi finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her pallu, trying to laugh. “Look at us, crying like fools. Come, come inside, the coffee is getting cold.”
But her heart whispered: Stay close. Don’t go far again. The nights are too long without your footsteps.
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