Incest Not just a Mother Anymore - Tale

[StoryReader1]

Pl cont

[xfirefox]

super.

very well executed and enjoyed thoroughly.

carry on

[Harini13]

Update please

[Vidhya20071984]

Simply a WOW

[nivithenaughty]

PART 7

The sun was already a hammer by ten, the red soil ground behind the temple baking like a brick kiln. Karthik grabbed his bat and old jersey, the fabric stiff with yesterday's sweat, and slipped out the back door while Indhu was still unpacking the morning's chicken and mutton in the kitchen.

The smell of raw meat and blood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint jasmine from her skin as she hummed a soft Tamil melody under her breath. Leka was in the bathroom, splashing water and singing off-key, her voice echoing through the house like a carefree bird.

He jogged the short distance to the ground, heart pounding not just from the run but from the morning's heat still simmering in his veins. The way Amma had looked in that charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, kajal making her eyes deep and mysterious, rose lipstick on her soft mouth—the image was burned into him, a constant flicker behind his eyelids.

And the kiss in the kitchen, her lips on his cheek, warm and grateful, whispering “thank you” like it was a secret meant only for him. His cock gave a faint twitch at the memory, guilt and excitement tangling in his gut as he arrived at the lot.

The boys were already there—twelve of them, two teams, the usual mix of college friends and area kids with mismatched jerseys and shared bats. The ground was a patch of cracked red earth ringed by neem trees and a crumbling temple wall, the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of sweat. They tossed for batting—Karthik's team won. He went in third, bat heavy in his hands, the bowler a lanky kid named Suresh who thought he was Jasprit Bumrah.

The first ball came fast—crack, Karthik swung, and it sailed over the boundary for six. The boys roared, fists pumping, dust kicking up in celebration. Another ball, another six—straight over the neem trees, lost in the bushes beyond. Four in the over, the bowler cursing, his friends slapping Karthik's back so hard it stung.

He felt alive then—powerful, the world sharp and bright, every muscle singing. The game flowed around him: catches dropped, runs stolen, shouts of “Howzat!” echoing off the temple stones. He bowled later—three wickets in two overs, the ball spinning wickedly on the dry soil. Victory tasted sweet, even if it was just a neighbourhood match with no prize but bragging rights.

But underneath the adrenaline, the morning lingered. Every time he wiped sweat from his brow, he remembered her cheek against his, the softness of her skin, the way her body had yielded when he held her waist. His cock stirred again, guilty heat pooling low. He pushed it down, focused on the game, but it waited like a shadow.

Break came after the first innings. They collapsed in the tamarind shade, passing around a single bottle of warm Bisleri, the water tasting like plastic and relief.

The talk turned, as it always did when the adults weren't around, to girls and porn.

“Dei Vignesh, that new one you downloaded yesterday—how was it?” Manoj asked, leaning back against the tree trunk, jersey open to his chest.

Vignesh grinned wide, teeth white against his dark skin. “Machan, fire only. College girl and her boyfriend's friend—full bold action. Ten minutes non-stop, her moaning like crazy. I came twice watching.”

The group erupted in laughter, crude gestures, slaps on knees. “Send da! Send!”

They turned to Karthik, sprawled on the grass, jersey soaked, bat across his knees.

“Still acting saint, da? Never watched even one video?” Vignesh teased, phone already out.

Karthik shrugged, trying to look bored, heart not in it. “Not interested.”

The boys groaned. “Come on, Karthik! This one will change you. Trust me.”

He opened his mouth to refuse—same as always, same excuse. But the words stuck.

The morning was too fresh: Amma in the skirt and top, hair loose, kajal eyes, rose lips; the kitchen hug, his hands on her waist, the soft give of her body against his; the way she had looked at him, eyes wide and dark, like she saw him as something new. His cock stirred again, a low ache that wouldn't leave. The tension had been building all morning, a fire banked but not out.

“Fine,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “Send.”

Vignesh whooped and airdropped the video. Then, because the boys were relentless, he sent four more—“last week's collection, da, don't miss. Full fire.”

Karthik accepted, locked them in a private folder titled “Physics Notes,” and shoved the phone deep in his pocket like it burned.

The rest of the match passed in a haze. He bowled his overs, took three wickets, but his arm felt heavy, mind already pulling him home.

By one-thirty he was back, sweat-dried and dusty, the phone like a grenade in his shorts.

Lunch was chicken curry with rice, the meat from the morning's shop simmering in thick gravy with coconut and spices. Indhu served, moving between stove and table in the ankle-length charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, the faint rose of lipstick making her mouth look kissable. She leaned over to fill his plate, and he caught the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her breasts, the gentle bounce when she laughed at something Leka said.

Every movement felt like a tease—her hands on the spoon, stirring slow circles; the way she licked a drop of curry from her finger, lips wrapping around it; the soft sway of her ass when she turned back to the stove.

His cock thickened under the table, hard and aching. He shifted, crossing his legs, guilt and hunger twisting in his gut. This is Amma. Stop. But the urge was stronger, darker, pulling him under.

Indhu felt his eyes on her—steady, burning—and her own body betrayed her with a warm flush, nipples tightening, a slick heat starting between her legs. She kept her smile normal, voice light, but inside she was trembling.

Lunch ended. Plates cleared. The familiar Sunday afternoon laziness settled over the house.

They migrated to the bedroom for the ritual movie-and-nap. Leka picked a silly Tamil comedy on the laptop, propped it on the pillow, and crawled into her side still in the mint-green cotton set. Indhu lay in the middle, skirt smoothed down to her ankles, hair fanned across the pillow. Karthik took the right edge in his shorts and T-shirt, the phone heavy in his pocket like a live coal.

The movie played—loud songs, louder jokes—but Karthik heard none of it.

Indhu's arm brushed his when she shifted.

Her skirt rode an inch higher, revealing the smooth skin of her ankle, the delicate bone of her foot.

Her breathing was soft and even, lips slightly parted, the faint rose of yesterday's lipstick still there.

His cock was fully hard now, aching against the thin fabric of his shorts. Every breath felt like fire. The videos waited in his phone—five of them, forbidden, easy. Just an excuse to touch himself, to let go of the pressure that had been building since yesterday.

Leka's laughter faded into soft snores within twenty minutes.

Indhu's eyes closed soon after, lashes dark against her cheeks, one hand curled loosely near his on the sheet.

Karthik lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, cock throbbing with every heartbeat.

He waited.

Waited for the room to go completely quiet.

Waited for the moment he could finally, carefully, reach for his phone.

The house asleep around him, the videos one tap away, and the woman who started everything breathing softly inches from his reach.



The bedroom was perfectly quiet.

Leka's soft snores on the left.

Indhu's slow, even breathing in the middle, her skirt still smoothed down to her ankles, one hand curled loosely near where his had been minutes ago.

The laptop screen had gone dark, the comedy long forgotten.

Karthik lay rigid, heart hammering so hard he was sure it would wake them. His cock throbbed against his shorts, painful, insistent, impossible to ignore any longer. The phone in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole straight through the fabric.

He couldn't stay here. Not beside her. Not with the memory of her body in that hug, her waist under his hands, her scent still in his lungs.

Slowly, carefully, he slid from the bed—inch by inch, the mattress barely dipping. His feet touched the cool floor. He stood, breath held, and padded out of the room on silent feet, phone clenched in his fist.

The wardrobe-room door closed behind him with the softest click. He locked it, leaned back against the wood for a second, eyes squeezed shut.

Then he moved to the attached bathroom, shut that door too, and lowered the western toilet lid. He sat, shorts and underwear shoved down to his ankles in one desperate motion.

His cock sprang free—already ninety percent hard, 6.5 inches of thick, dark, aching need, the head slick with pre-cum. He wrapped his shaking hand around it, thumb brushing the sensitive underside, and nearly groaned aloud.

Phone in the other hand. Earphones in—volume low, but enough.

First video.

Latina woman—thick, curvy, massive tits spilling out of a tiny red bra, ass like two perfect globes in a thong. Young guy behind her, hands on her hips. The camera zoomed in as she dropped to her knees.

Karthik's breath hitched.

She took the guy in her mouth—slow, wet, sloppy, lips stretching wide, tongue swirling. The sounds—wet sucking, soft moans, the guy's low groan—filled his ears.

His hand moved without permission, stroking in time with her head. Up, down, faster. The woman's eyes looked straight into the camera, like she was sucking him.

He bit his lip hard to stay quiet.

Cowgirl next—she climbed on, ass bouncing, tits swinging, riding hard. The slap of skin on skin, her moans rising.

Karthik's hips lifted off the seat, hand flying now, pressure building fast and brutal.

Video two loaded automatically.

Petite teen this time—tiny waist, small tits, huge innocent eyes. Massive guy behind her, dwarfing her. She knelt, took him in her mouth—struggling, gagging, spit dripping. Then he laid her back, spread her legs, and licked—slow, filthy circles around her clit, tongue dipping inside.

Karthik lost it.

The sight of that tongue on her pussy, the way she writhed and begged, the wet sounds—he came hard, cock pulsing in his fist, thick ropes shooting against the bathroom wall, splattering the tiles. His whole body shook, a low, choked groan escaping despite his clenched teeth.

He sat there panting, forehead against the cool wall, cum dripping down the tiles, guilt and relief crashing together in his chest.

First real porn. First real orgasm to it.

He wiped himself with toilet paper, flushed the evidence, cleaned the wall with shaking hands.

The third video thumbnail waited.

He told himself he was done. Soft now, spent, guilty.

But curiosity—dark, hungry—pulled him back.

Just a glimpse, he thought.

He clicked.

And everything changed.



The third video thumbnail loaded.

Title in bold white letters:

Stepmom Seductions – India Summer

Karthik's thumb hovered, breath caught in his throat.

The freeze-frame showed a woman in black lace lingerie—bra barely containing full, dark-nippled breasts, matching panties cut high on the hips, sheer stockings held up by garter belts, heels sharp and dangerous. Long dark hair, fair skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that looked straight into the camera like she knew every filthy thought you'd ever had.

The resemblance hit him like a punch to the gut.

Same slim waist.

Same flared hips.

Same long legs.

Same elegant neck and collarbones.

Same knowing half-smile.

India Summer looked like Indhu grown bolder, wilder, unleashed.

His cock—soft only seconds ago—surged back to life, thickening, lengthening, veins standing out angry and dark. Harder than the first two videos combined. Harder than he had ever been in his life. Six and a half inches stretched to its absolute limit, the head flushed deep red, slick and shining.

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

In his head the woman on the screen became Amma—Amma in black lace and stockings, garter straps framing the soft mound he had glimpsed that dawn, nipples dark against sheer fabric, eyes heavy with want.

His hand moved on its own, wrapping around his cock again, stroking slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the scene that began to play.

India Summer walked into the frame, hips swaying, voice low and teasing.

“You've been watching me, haven't you?”

Karthik's breath stuttered.

It was Indhu's voice in his head—soft, knowing, a little dangerous.

She dropped to her knees in front of the young guy on the couch, fingers undoing his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera zoomed in as she took him in her mouth—slow, wet, loving, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked up at him the whole time.

Karthik's hand flew now, grip tight, hips lifting off the toilet seat.

In his mind it was Amma's mouth—warm, soft, perfect—taking him deep, her loose hair falling forward, kajal-smudged eyes looking up at him with love and lust.

The actress climbed onto the guy's face next, thighs framing his head, lace panties pulled aside. She ground down slowly, hips rolling, moaning as his tongue licked her.

Karthik lost it.

He pictured Indhu above him—skirt pushed up, no panties, her pussy bare and wet and glistening, lowering herself onto his mouth, thighs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair, riding his tongue while she whispered his name.

His cock throbbed, impossibly hard, veins straining, every nerve on fire.

The scene shifted—doggy style, her back arched, ass high, taking every thrust with gasps and cries.

Karthik saw Amma bent over their own bed, skirt flipped up, his hands on her hips, sliding into her again and again, her voice breaking on his name.

Final scene: she knelt again, mouth open, taking rope after rope of cum across her tongue, swallowing with a slow, satisfied smile.

Karthik came harder than he ever had in his life—thick pulses shooting across his fist, splattering the bathroom wall, his stomach, the floor. His whole body shook, vision whiting out, a low, broken groan tearing from his throat.

He sat there for minutes—panting, spent, cum cooling on his skin, guilt crashing in like a tidal wave.

He had just jerked off—twice—imagining his own mother in porn.

Imagining her mouth on him.

Her pussy on his tongue.

Her body taking him inside.

He deleted the first two videos with shaking fingers.

The third one—Stepmom Seductions—he moved to a hidden folder titled “Private.”

He would find more of her.

He needed to.

He cleaned himself, flushed the evidence, washed his hands until they were raw.

When he slipped back into the bedroom, Indhu was still sleeping peacefully on her side, skirt smoothed down, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, looking innocent and beautiful and utterly untouchable.

He lay down on the edge, as far from her as the bed allowed, guilt choking him.

His cock—traitor that it was—gave one last weak twitch at the sight of her.

He turned his back to her, pulled the sheet up to his chin, and stared at the wall until sleep finally dragged him under.

In his dreams India Summer wore Indhu's face, and Indhu wore black lace, and neither of them ever looked away.

[nivithenaughty]

For those who doesn't know India Summer here it is,.

[xfirefox]

so he progressed to porn and now imagining THE LADY of the house in all kind of compromising positons, i guess it's all happening to soon.

I remembered reading it's going to be a slow burn, in my opinion no son actually have sexual thoughts for thier mother, it's always the idea of forbidden fruit but not the actual person.

I would have loved to see this story unfolding in a lot slower pace for the attraction towards the opposite sex to turn into sexual thoughts that too actually on a real family member.

from kartik's perspective being appreciative of his mother's beauty and getting attracted towards her is one thing but within a couple of updates he has started imagining her sexually sucking, fucking is a little bit early and fast paced, could have been a slow burn.

but hey I enjoyed your writing and every part of the story as it is, I know advising others is easy rather doing it oneself. do not take this in a negative way, I really like this story and its character and storyline.

looking forward. good work. appreciate it

[nivithenaughty]

so he progressed to porn and now imagining THE LADY of the house in all kind of compromising positons, i guess it's all happening to soon.

I remembered reading it's going to be a slow burn, in my opinion no son actually have sexual thoughts for thier mother, it's always the idea of forbidden fruit but not the actual person.

I would have loved to see this story unfolding in a lot slower pace for the attraction towards the opposite sex to turn into sexual thoughts that too actually on a real family member.

from kartik's perspective being appreciative of his mother's beauty and getting attracted towards her is one thing but within a couple of updates he has started imagining her sexually sucking, fucking is a little bit early and fast paced, could have been a slow burn.

but hey I enjoyed your writing and every part of the story as it is, I know advising others is easy rather doing it oneself. do not take this in a negative way, I really like this story and its character and storyline.

looking forward. good work. appreciate it

HI thank you for your comments and views its gonna be a slow burn just because the son seen a porn and imagined his mom its not gonna happen indhu has to accept him and he is still a young guy doesnt know anything about seducing a women. this porn watching is a knowledge for him. when they became together he need to know how to satisfy women how will k=he know without exploring these. Dont worry i dont rush things i will make sure they both progress in realistic manner. keep posting your views it makes me think in different angles.

[BiratKj]

Once again awesome update

[Jeshwanth]

Wow so good, awesome updates.

[BiratKj]

So erotic. ।।।keepit up.

[tting4tting4]

Nice build up! I must say women writers are rocking this forum! looking forward to more :)

[xfirefox]

waiting

[kama priya 1]

Story is slow and erotic but sometimes the languages is so elegant. Can you make it little simple and add some photos wherever needed so it will be engaging

[kama priya 1]

Romantic stories between mom and son haven't been on xossipy as far as I know. Hope this will be a banger ..

[snehasis]

nice one really

[nivithenaughty]

PART 8

The nap stretched long and deep, the kind that happens only on lazy Sundays when the heat outside is too heavy to fight. Leka woke first, around four-thirty, blinking at the golden light slanting through the curtains. Indhu stirred a minute later, hair tousled, skirt twisted slightly around her legs. Karthik slept on like a child, curled on his side, one arm flung across the empty space where she had been, face peaceful and unguarded.

Indhu sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. She looked at his sleeping face—long lashes, the faint shadow of stubble starting on his jaw, the mouth that had kissed her cheeks so boldly this morning—and felt a soft ache in her chest. Something tender and confusing and warm.

Leka yawned, stretching. “Let him sleep, Amma. He played cricket in this heat, poor thing.”

Indhu smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with the lightest touch. “Come, help me make tea and snacks.”

They left him sleeping and padded to the kitchen. Indhu washed her face at the sink, tied her hair loosely, and started the coffee for herself and tea for Leka. The movements were familiar, comforting—boiling milk, crushing ginger, the soft clink of steel glasses. Leka sliced onions for bajji, chattering about college, about which kurti she would wear tomorrow, about how the boys would stare.

Indhu listened and laughed in all the right places, but her mind kept drifting to the boy still asleep in the bedroom. The way he had looked at her this morning. The way his hands had felt on her waist. The sudden, fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he chose clothes for her alone.

Karthik woke twenty minutes later to the smell of coffee and the sound of his mother and sister talking softly. For one peaceful second everything felt normal.

Then memory slammed into him.

The bathroom.  

The videos.  

India Summer on her knees, mouth open, eyes locked on the camera.  

His own mother's face superimposed—her lips, her hair, her body in black lace and stockings.  
The way he had come twice, harder than ever, picturing her moans, her taste, her pussy grinding on his tongue.

Guilt crashed over him like cold water. He sat up, heart racing, shame burning his throat.  
What kind of son am I?  
He couldn't face her. Couldn't look at her innocent, beautiful face knowing what he had just done.

But the kitchen called. He couldn't hide forever.

He walked out slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to look normal.

Indhu turned from the stove, smile soft. “Slept well, kanna? Coffee?”

Her voice was the same gentle one that had sung him lullabies. Her eyes were the same warm ones that had cried when he had fever at eight. Nothing in her face showed she knew the filth that had just played in his head.

He nodded, throat tight. “Yes, Amma.”

They sat in the hall—tea, bajji, murukku from the new batch. Leka dominated the conversation, planning outfits, asking Indhu which lipstick would match the wine kurti. Karthik spoke when spoken to, laughed when he was supposed to, but every time his eyes met his mother's he felt the guilt like a knife.

Evening movie time came—some old family comedy on TV. They pulled the sofa closer, Leka sprawled across one end with her legs over the armrest, Indhu in the middle, Karthik on the other side. The room grew dark outside, only the TV glow and the soft yellow bulb lighting their faces.

Halfway through the film Karthik couldn't bear the distance anymore. The guilt sat heavy on his chest, choking him.

He shifted closer, slowly, until his shoulder brushed hers. Indhu glanced at him, surprised, then smiled and let him settle against her side like he used to when he was small.

He slipped an arm around her waist—careful, apologetic—and rested his head against her upper arm. A silent sorry. A plea for forgiveness he couldn't voice.

Indhu's heart flipped. She felt the tremor in his touch, the way he held her like she was something precious and fragile. Without thinking she pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

Leka was too absorbed in the movie to notice.

The film ended. Lights out. They migrated to the bedroom in the familiar order—Leka, Indhu, Karthik.

Karthik lay on his side facing his mother in the dark, arm dbangd carefully across her waist, holding her like he was afraid she would disappear.

Guilt still gnawed at him, sharp and poisonous.

But her breathing was steady, her body warm and real under his arm, and slowly, slowly, the storm inside him quieted.

He pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing in jasmine and clean skin and home.

I'm sorry, Amma.  
I'll be better.  
I love you.

She felt the silent words in the way he held her—tight, protective, a little desperate—and her own heart answered without words.

Sleep took them all, tangled together in the big bed, the secrets and the guilt and the love all breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

For tonight, at least, it was enough.

--------------------

Monday morning came too soon.

The alarm buzzed at six-thirty. Indhu woke first, slipped from the bed, and padded to the kitchen in her safe cotton nightie. Coffee, tea, idlies—the routine that had always felt like home.

But something was off.

Karthik woke later than usual, eyes shadowed, voice quiet. No sleepy grin when she handed him coffee. No teasing compliment about how she looked in the morning light. Just a soft “Thank you, Amma” and a quick look away.

She watched him over the rim of her glass, heart giving a small, worried tug.  
He's been like this since yesterday afternoon. Deep in thought, barely speaking. Did I say something wrong? Did the shopping overwhelm him?

Leka noticed nothing—she chattered about college, about which new kurti she would wear today. Karthik nodded at the right times, but his smiles didn't reach his eyes.

The week unfolded in the same careful rhythm.

college for Karthik, college for Leka, housework for Indhu. Rajan was away until Wednesday, so the house felt lighter, but the lightness didn't touch Karthik.

He came home dusty from cricket, but instead of flopping on the sofa beside her and stealing bites from her plate while telling her about his day, he went straight to the bathroom, showered, and disappeared into his books.

Evenings, when they watched TV together, he sat on the far end of the sofa, eyes fixed on the screen, body angled away.

Indhu felt the absence like a missing limb.

She missed his sudden compliments—the way he would look at her in a new kurti and say “Amma, you look like a heroine” with that shy, proud grin.  
She missed his head on her shoulder during movies, his arm dbangd casually across her waist when they slept.  
She missed the way his eyes followed her in the kitchen, warm and attentive, like she was the only person in the room.

Now there was only quiet.

She caught herself watching him when he thought she wasn't looking—his broad shoulders hunched over books, the way he rubbed his neck when he was thinking too hard, the faint crease between his brows that hadn't been there before.

What happened, kanna?  

Did I do something?  

Or is it… something else?

She never asked. Mothers don't pry when their sons go quiet; they wait. But the waiting ached.

Wednesday night Rajan returned—loud phone calls on the terrace, the familiar weight of his presence filling the house. Everything snapped back to “normal.” Leka wore her safe churidars again. Indhu cooked his favourite fish curry. The bed felt crowded once more.

Karthik became even quieter.

When Rajan raised his voice about Leka's college fees, Karthik didn't jump in to defend anyone. He just stared at his plate.

When Rajan complained about the price of groceries, Karthik didn't meet Indhu's eyes across the table like they used to—sharing a secret roll of eyes, a silent “we'll manage.”

He kept distance.

Inside him, the guilt was a living thing—sharp teeth, cold claws.

Every time he looked at his mother—beautiful, gentle, innocent—he saw the porn playing behind his eyes.  

India Summer on her knees.  

But with Amma's face.  

Amma's mouth.  

Amma's moans.

He had jerked off to his own mother. Twice. Imagined her riding his face, taking him inside her, swallowing him.

The shame was unbearable.

Distance was the only cure, he told himself.  
Stay away. Don't touch. Don't look too long.  
The feelings will fade.  
They have to.

So he built walls—small, careful ones.  

Sat on the edge of the bed at night, back turned.
  
Helped in the kitchen but never lingered.  

Smiled politely, spoke when spoken to, loved her from afar.

Indhu felt every brick.

She lay awake long after the lights were out, listening to his breathing on the far side of the bed, feeling the cold space where his arm used to rest across her waist.

She missed him.

And she didn't understand why he had gone away.

The week ended quietly, the house holding its breath, waiting for something neither of them dared to name.


-----------------------

The silence grew like a shadow.

At first it was small—Karthik's answers shorter, his smiles thinner. Then it became a habit. He woke, drank coffee with a quiet “thank you,” left for college without the usual hug or teasing remark. Evenings he came home, showered, ate, studied. When the family watched TV he sat on the far cushion, eyes on the screen, body angled away.

Leka noticed first.

One evening while helping Indhu fold laundry she asked, “Amma, what happened to Karthik? He's like a ghost these days. Doesn't talk, doesn't laugh, doesn't even fight with me anymore.”

Indhu forced a smile, heart twisting. “Studies pressure, maybe. Twelfth standard is hard.”

But she knew it wasn't studies.

She felt the distance like a physical ache.

Every morning she chose her clothes carefully now—the new kurtis, the soft tops, the ankle skirts, the luxury pyjama sets when Rajan was away. She wore them hoping, waiting for the old Karthik to return—the one who would look at her with shining eyes and say “Amma, you look brand new today” or “This colour is perfect on you.”

She wore the rose-pink sleeveless top with the knee-length skirt one day, hair loose, a touch of kajal.  
Nothing.

The charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket the next evening.  
He glanced once—quick, burning—then looked away.

The luxury modal pyjama set in smoky rose when Rajan was on a two-day trip—soft fabric sliding over her skin, camisole straps thin on her shoulders.  
He lay on the far edge of the bed, back turned, breathing careful.

But she caught him looking when he thought she wasn't watching.

In the kitchen while she cooked, his eyes tracing the curve of her waist in the fitted top.  
In the mirror when she brushed her hair, his reflection staring a second too long before he turned away, cheeks flushed.  
At the dining table, gaze dropping to her legs under the skirt, then snapping up guiltily when she moved.

He saw her.  
He just wouldn't speak.

The secret pieces—the jeans, the black thread-tie nightie, the off-shoulder top—remained buried in the old saree shelf. Those were his “only for you.” She couldn't wear them yet. Not without him.

One afternoon while Karthik was out playing cricket, Indhu sat with Varsha on a video call, the phone propped against a pillow.

Varsha's face filled the screen, eyes wide with mischief. “So, your young boyfriend took you shopping, ha? Secret nighties, shimmer leggings, luxury everything. Lucky woman!”

Indhu laughed at first, the sound light. “Dei, stop it. He's my son.”

But the laughter faded quickly.

Varsha's expression softened. “What happened, Indhu? You look… sad.”

Indhu's voice dropped. “He's changed, Varsha. Ever since the shopping. Quiet. Distant. Doesn't talk to me like before. Doesn't even look at me properly. I wear everything he chose—every single piece—waiting for him to say something, anything. But nothing.”

Varsha listened, serious now.

“I miss him,” Indhu whispered, eyes stinging suddenly. “I miss my boy who used to tell me I looked beautiful every day. Now he barely speaks. I feel… lost.”

Varsha was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he's going through something. Boys that age—hormones, confusion. Give him time. But talk to him, Indhu. Gently. He worships you. That doesn't vanish overnight.”

Indhu nodded, but the ache stayed.

Rajan came and went—work trips, late nights, the usual tension. The house adjusted around him like it always did.

But the real silence lived between mother and son.

Indhu wore the clothes he had chosen, hoping each new day would bring back his voice, his eyes, his warmth.

Karthik watched from the shadows, guilt choking him every time he looked too long, desire burning him every time he looked away.

The week ended with the distance still there—careful, painful, growing.

And neither of them knew how to cross it.


------------------------------


Indhu took Varsha's advice to heart.

Give him time.

So she waited.

The days settled into a new, careful rhythm. Rajan's trips came and went, Leka's college routine kept her busy, and Karthik… Karthik remained quiet. Polite. Distant. He spoke when spoken to, helped with chores, smiled when expected, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, and the easy closeness between them had turned into something fragile and careful.

Indhu felt it like a bruise she couldn't touch.

To fill the quiet, she leaned harder into Varsha.

Every afternoon, once the house was clean and lunch dishes done, she found her way to her friend—sometimes a video call while folding clothes, sometimes a walk to Varsha's little tailoring boutique on the main road, sometimes both of them escaping to the nearby parlour for threading or a quick facial.

Varsha's shop was a small, colourful haven—bolts of cloth stacked to the ceiling, sewing machines humming, the smell of new fabric and coffee always in the air. Indhu would sit on the high stool near the cutting table, watching Varsha pin patterns or stitch hems, and the words would spill out.

“He chose this top, Varsha. Look at the colour—he said it would make my skin glow.”  
Indhu would hold up the rose-pink sleeveless one, the fabric catching the light.

Varsha would pause her stitching, look up with a grin. “Ayyo, perfect choice. Your young boyfriend has good taste.”

Indhu would laugh, cheeks warming. “Dei, stop it. He's my son.”

But the next day it would be the midnight-navy pyjama set.  
“He picked this one and said ‘only when it's safe.' Like he was protecting me from your father's eyes.”

Varsha would whistle low. “Romantic da. Like a hero hiding gifts for his heroine.”

Or the peach-pink nightie with soft pleats.  
“I wore it once when Rajan was away. He said I looked… gorgeous.”

Varsha's eyes would sparkle. “And how did you feel?”

Indhu's voice would drop. “Like a woman again. Not just a mother. Not just a wife.”

Every compliment on her clothes—and there were many, from neighbours, from the parlour girls, even from Murugan uncle at the butcher—led back to him.

“He knew exactly what would suit me.”

Varsha listened, stitched, teased.

But slowly the teasing turned gentle.

One afternoon in the parlour, while warm wax was spread on Indhu's arms, Varsha leaned close.

“You know, Indhu… I've known you twenty years. I've seen you laugh with Rajan in the early days. I've seen you tired, angry, resigned. But I've never seen you like this—happy and sad at the same time, all because of one boy.”

Indhu's eyes stung. “He's not talking to me, Varsha. He looks at me when he thinks I don't see, but when I look back… he turns away. Like he's carrying something heavy.”

Varsha squeezed her hand. “It sounds like a young couple's fight, da. The longing in your voice… like a girlfriend missing her boyfriend after a silly argument.”

Indhu laughed, but it came out shaky. “Don't be ridiculous.”

But the words stayed.

Another day at the boutique, Indhu tried on a new kurti Varsha was stitching for her—soft teal, three-quarter sleeves, perfect neckline.

Varsha pinned the hem. “Look at you. Glowing. All because your ‘boyfriend' chose clothes that make you feel beautiful.”

Indhu met her eyes in the mirror. “I miss him, Varsha. I miss my son.”

Varsha's voice softened. “He'll come back. Boys that age… they carry storms inside. But he worships you. That doesn't vanish.”

Indhu nodded, but the ache stayed.

She wore the clothes he had chosen every day—rotating through the luxury pyjamas when Rajan was away, the bolder tops when it was safe, the flowing skirts and soft colours when it wasn't. She wore them like armour, like love letters, waiting for the day he would notice again and speak.

And every night, lying in the dark with his arm no longer across her waist, she whispered into the silence:

Come back to me, kanna.

I'm still here.

Waiting.


---------------------------


The exam season arrived like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.

Indhu saw it coming and stepped back.

She let Karthik study. No more late-night TV, no distractions. She cooked his favourite brain foods—fish curry rich with omega, almond milk at night, fruits cut into perfect pieces. She left his study table lamp on low, slipped in quietly to place water or coffee, then retreated without a word.

Inside, she waited.

Varsha's teasing words echoed sometimes when she was alone:  
“You're acting like his girlfriend, Indhu—waiting, longing, dressing up for his eyes only.”

The thought made her cheeks burn and her stomach flutter in a way that felt both special and wrong.  

He makes me feel seen. Wanted. Like I matter. 
 
But then motherhood crashed in: He's your son. He's hurting. Give him space.



Karthik buried himself in books, telling himself the same lie:  
After exams I'll be normal again. The thoughts will stop. The guilt will fade.

But every night, lying inches from her in the dark, he felt her warmth, smelled her jasmine hair, heard her soft breathing. The videos waited in his phone like poison. He didn't open them again, but he didn't delete the folder either.

The exams came and went—ten days of tension, early mornings, late nights, the house hushed except for the scratch of his pen.

When they ended he felt hollow, not relieved.

“How did you do?” Indhu asked every day, voice gentle, eyes hopeful.

“Well, Amma,” he lied each time, forcing a smile. “I think good.”

She believed him. She always did.

Results day came in early September.

Karthik sat alone in his room, staring at the screen.  
Failed in Physics and Maths.  
50-55% in the rest.  
Overall barely passing.

His stomach dropped. He had always been solid—85%+, sometimes 90. Never brilliant, but never this. The distraction, the nights lost to guilt and forbidden thoughts, had cost him everything.

He didn't cry. Just sat numb.

Rajan came home early that evening, still in his office shirt, laptop bag slung over shoulder. His friend's son was in the same class; the marks had already spread through the parents' WhatsApp group.

“Marks out?” Rajan asked casually, dropping his bag.

Karthik's throat closed. He handed over the printout without a word.

Rajan scanned it. His face darkened, then went red.

The first slap came fast—open palm across Karthik's cheek, sharp and loud.

“You useless boy!” Rajan roared. “Failed? FAILED? After all the money, all the coaching—what were you doing?”

Second slap. Harder.

Leka heard from the kitchen and ran in, eyes wide.

Indhu followed, spoon still in hand, face going pale.

“Rajan—” she started.

He turned on her, eyes blazing. “This is your fault too! Spoiling him, letting him waste time!”

Third slap. Karthik's head snapped sideways, cheek burning, tears stinging but not falling.

He stood silent, taking it.  
I deserve this.  
I failed.  
I'm worthless.

Leka started crying, hands over her mouth.

Indhu tried to step between them. “Rajan, stop! He's your son!”

Rajan's look pinned her in place—pure fury. “Stay out of it.”

She froze, tears spilling over.

Rajan stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. The car started, tires screeching as he drove off.

The house fell deathly quiet except for Leka's soft sobs.

Indhu ran to Karthik, hands trembling as she cupped his burning cheeks, tears streaming down her face.

“Kanna… my baby… I'm sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I'm so sorry he did this.”

She pulled him into her arms, rocking him like he was five again, fingers stroking his hair, lips pressing kisses to his forehead, his temple, the red marks on his cheek.

Karthik's walls cracked.

He buried his face in her shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist tight, and finally let the tears come—silent, shaking, years of guilt and pain pouring out against her neck.

Leka stood crying in the doorway, helpless.

Indhu held him closer, tears soaking his shirt.

“I've got you,” she whispered over and over. “I've got you. You're enough. You're always enough for me.”

In that moment, something shifted forever.

The distance he had built to protect her shattered against her embrace.

And the love—confusing, overwhelming, undeniable—flooded back in, stronger than before.

[Fing fing]

Pls add photo and gif for making story intense hot and more engaging....

[Vidhya20071984]

Fabulous. As a mother, I know this feeling—  

It’s like being in heaven, yet burning in fire.  

It hurts, but it’s irresistibly addictive.  

[xfirefox]

WOW!

pure heart warming and excellent as well as complimentary update to the story line.

anticipation was so high, that I was on the edge till the last two LINES. what a bulidUP.

this update has just raised the BAR to another level.

It's always the journey towards the ultimate with all the highs and lows that defines the writer's foresight and imagination and that adds the weight to THE STORY.

It's not the vocabulary but the concoction and summation of well thought ideas and there presentation with everything woven in such a dramatic way and that too with how one delivers that is the key.

One of the best update so far and also the story defining.

keep up the good work.

*do add update number at the starting of every update.

well I liked the nostalgia of drinking tea in steel glass.

* also add a rough handmade map\blueprint of the house for the better understanding and deep engagment with the story.

* IF you plan to add photos to the story, then use AI generated image only, not of some tv\movie actors. but I'm ok as it is going on, I don't want your focus on other mundane things. No compromise with the quality of the storytelling.

don't take so long to post an update, on the otherhand this wait was worth it, but it's also killing. he he