Fantasy My Conservative Mom Trapped in Weird Circumstances- Revived

[Rocky]

Did we miss any continuation from below point?


“Kal subah jab main wapas aaungi… agar tum dono ek saath mujhe utha kar bed par bithaoge aur kaho ki sab theek hai… tab main wapas beech mein aaungi.”

[Innocent_Pervert]

Did we miss any continuation from below point?


“Kal subah jab main wapas aaungi… agar tum dono ek saath mujhe utha kar bed par bithaoge aur kaho ki sab theek hai… tab main wapas beech mein aaungi.”

Thank you for noticing my mistake, Please check the first update I posted today, I have edited it..  

[Rocky]

Thank you for noticing my mistake, Please check the first update I posted today, I have edited it..  

Thanks bro

BTW no mention, so involved in the story and thought link was missing

Became fan of you

[Innocent_Pervert]

Market Visit

Two days later, she decided she needed some air.

It was a bright Saturday  afternoon, The heat had eased a little, the sky a clear blue after weeks of haze. Maa told them she was going to the market near Panchavati to buy fresh vegetables and some new blouse pieces for the coming festivals. She didn’t ask anyone to come with her. She simply wore a light peach saree—thin cotton, low-waist petticoat, sleeveless blouse with a modest but deep neckline—and walked out with her purse and a cloth bag.




Papa watched her go from the balcony. Chacha stood at the kitchen window. Neither said anything.

The market was crowded, as always on weekends. Vegetable vendors shouted prices, fish sellers slapped fresh catch on wooden boards, women haggled over tomatoes and ladies-fingers. Maa moved through it easily, bargaining in her calm, firm voice, filling her bag with brinjal, drumsticks, coriander, and a bunch of curry leaves.

She stopped at a small cloth stall to look at blouse material. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a thin mustache, unfolded a few pieces for her—red georgette, bottle-green silk, cream net with zari work. She held one against herself in the small mirror, turning slightly to see the back.

That’s when she heard it.

Two men—late 30s, probably laborers or small-shop owners—were standing a few feet away near a fruit cart. They weren’t even trying to whisper.

“Arre yaar, dekha? Yeh Bhabhi ka figure… kya maal hai. Pallu thoda aur gir jaaye toh pura maza aa jaye.”

The other one chuckled, low and dirty.

“Haan re… dekh kaise chal rahi hai. Gaand toh bilkul tight hai.”

Maa’s hand stilled on the fabric. She didn’t turn immediately. She kept looking at the mirror, expression unchanged, but her ears caught every word.

The first man continued, emboldened by her apparent ignorance.

“Blouse bhi dekha? Kitna deep hai. Nipple tak dikh raha hoga andar se. Aaj kal ki auratein aise hi dikhati hain”

Maa slowly turned her head—not toward them, but enough to catch their eyes in the reflection of the stall’s mirror. They froze when they realized she had heard everything.

She didn’t blush. She didn’t look shocked or angry. She simply held their gaze for three full seconds—long enough for the smirk to die on their faces—then turned back to the shopkeeper as if nothing had happened.

“Ye wala green piece do,” she said calmly. “Blouse ke liye perfect rahega.”

The shopkeeper nodded quickly, folding the fabric.

The two men shifted uncomfortably. One muttered something under his breath and started walking away. The other lingered a moment longer, trying to salvage his ego with a half-hearted whistle, but it came out weak and died halfway.

Maa paid, took the packet, and walked past them without a glance. Her steps were unhurried, hips swaying naturally under the saree, the same way they always did. But now it felt deliberate—like a quiet reminder that she knew exactly what they were thinking, and she didn’t care.

The market heat clung to Maa's skin like a second layer as she moved deeper into the crowded lanes of Panchavati. The peach saree—thin, almost sheer in the direct sunlight—had started sticking in places from sweat, outlining every curve she usually kept subtle. She didn’t mind. If anything, the damp fabric made her feel more aware of her body, more present in it.

She stopped at the fish stall to pick up some fresh pomfret for Papa’s favorite curry. The vendor, a burly man in his 50s with a stained lungi and gold chain, gutted a fish with quick, practiced strokes while eyeing her openly.

“Arre bhabhi, aaj itni sundar lag rahi ho… garmi mein bhi itni fresh” he said, voice oily, grinning with stained teeth. His knife paused mid-cut as his gaze dropped to her chest—where the damp saree had molded itself to her breasts, the outline of her bra clearly visible.

Maa didn’t flinch. She met his eyes directly, calm, unblinking.

“Fresh toh fish hai aapke paas,” she replied evenly. “Mujhe sirf 500 gram de dijiye. Jaldi.”
The vendor chuckled, low and dirty, leaning forward over the wooden board so his face was closer to hers.

“Jaldi? Arre bhabhi, aap jaisi aurat ke liye toh hum time nikal hi lenge. Aapko dekh kar dil khush ho jata hai”

Two younger men—probably his helpers—laughed behind him. One muttered loud enough to carry: “Dekh bhai, gaand kitni tight hai… saree mein bhi dikh rahi hai. Yeh regularly aati hai yahan, har baar alag-alag rang ki saree. Lagta hai ghar mein mard nahi hai jo control kare.”

The other one added, even louder, voice thick with leer: “Control kya karega bhai… aisi aurat ko toh raat bhar thokna padta hai. Dekh kaise chal rahi hai… hips hilate hue. Bilkul randi jaisi.”

Maa’s hand tightened on the handle of her cloth bag—just once, a small flex of knuckles—then relaxed.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply stepped one foot closer to the stall, leaned in slightly so her face was level with the vendor’s, and spoke in the same soft, polite tone she used when bargaining for tomatoes.

“Aap log bahut bol rahe ho,” she said quietly. “Par suno achhe se. Main yahan aati hoon kyunki mujhe yahan ki cheezein pasand hain. Na ki aap logon ki bhasha.”

The vendor’s grin faltered. The helpers exchanged uneasy glances.

Silence crashed around the stall like a dropped plate.

The vendor’s knife slipped, nicking his thumb. Blood welled up. He cursed under his breath and wrapped it in a rag.

The two helpers stared at her—eyes wide, bravado gone, replaced by something closer to fear.

Maa straightened, paid exactly what the fish cost (no extra tip, no discount asked), took the packet, and turned away.

As she walked past them, she kept head high, hips swaying with the same natural rhythm, but now it carried weight. Power. A quiet, unmistakable warning.
Behind her, the stall was dead silent.


She bought her jasmine garland, tucked it into her open hair, and continued home.

When she stepped through the gate, Papa was on the balcony pretending to read the newspaper. Chacha was watering plants near the entrance—too casually.

Both men straightened the moment they saw her.
Maa set the bags down, wiped a bead of sweat from her neck with the edge of her pallu—letting it slip just enough to show the damp curve of her breast for a split second before covering it again.


“Bahut garmi thi aaj,” she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather alone. 

“Market bhi zyada bheed bhara tha.” Papa folded the newspaper a little too neatly. 

Chacha adjusted the angle of the watering can, though no water came out. 

She wiped her forehead with the edge of her pallu, slow and absent-minded, then let it fall back into place. Her movements were unhurried, ordinary. Nothing about them asked for attention — which made it harder not to watch.

Papa cleared his throat. “Sab mil gaya?” 

“Haan,” she said. “Sab fresh tha.” She picked up the fish packet from the bag and held it up slightly, as if remembering something pleasant. 

“Aaj pomfret achha mila. Socha, aapko pasand hai.” Papa nodded. Chacha said nothing.

Maa looked from one to the other — not searching, not questioning. Just looking. Her expression was calm, almost cheerful, but there was a stillness under it that made both men shift without knowing why. 

“Main kitchen ja rahi hoon,” she said. “Thoda rest kar lo aap dono.” She turned and walked inside. 

Papa watched her disappear down the corridor. He didn’t sit back down. 

Chacha finally lowered the watering can, the soil beneath the plant already dark and wet. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Inside the kitchen, Maa washed her hands slowly. She unwrapped the fish, laid it neatly in the sink, and reached for the knife. Only then did she smile — small, private, gone as quickly as it came. 

[Fing fing]

Too hot,keep goin:)

[Innocent_Pervert]

Later, while cutting vegetables, Maa thought about the market.

Not the noise. Not the heat.

The men.

How quickly their eyes went to the same places. How predictably their voices changed. As if a woman existed only in parts—waist, chest, hips—never as a whole person standing right in front of them.

It wasn’t desire that struck her as cheap. Desire was natural.

It was the laziness of it.

No curiosity. No imagination. No restraint. Just bodies reduced to measurements, movements reduced to permission. As if a woman’s presence itself was an invitation they hadn’t bothered to earn.

She wondered, briefly, if they even saw her face.



The knife moved steadily through the drumstick—clean, even slices. Each cut made a soft, crisp sound against the wooden board. She didn’t rush. She never rushed when she was thinking this way.

Papa was in the living room, pretending to watch the news. Chacha had gone to the terrace to “check the plants,” though the watering can had been empty for twenty minutes. Both of them were orbiting her without coming too close, like moths that had learned the bulb could burn.

She set the knife down for a moment and wiped her hands on the edge of her saree. The peach cotton was still slightly damp from the afternoon, but now it felt cool against her skin in the shaded kitchen. She looked out the small window above the sink—past the mango tree, past the neighbour’s drying laundry, toward the street where the market noise had long faded into evening traffic.

They hadn’t seen her face.

Not really.

They had seen the outline of a breast under wet fabric, the sway of hips under a low-tied petticoat, the exposed strip of midriff when she reached for something. They had seen pieces.

Never the woman who had raised two children, rebuilt a marriage after it had been publicly disassembled and reassembled like furniture. Never the woman who had listened to three grown men confess their hungers and still chosen exactly how much of herself she would feed them.

She picked up the knife again.

The drumstick gave way under the blade—neat, controlled. She thought about how easy it would have been, in that market lane, to let anger rise. To shout. To shame them publicly. To make a scene that would have given them exactly what they wanted: her emotion, her reaction, proof that their words had power.

Instead she had spoken softly. Looked them in the eye. Asked them, almost gently, if their courage matched their mouths.

And they had folded.

Not because she screamed.

Because she didn’t.

Because she had looked at them the way a teacher looks at a child who has repeated a mistake for the tenth time—patient, unsurprised, faintly disappointed. That look disarmed faster than any slap.

She smiled to herself, small and private, as she swept the cut pieces into the pressure cooker.

Papa appeared in the doorway then, hesitant.

“Sab theek hai?” he asked, voice careful.

Maa didn’t turn immediately. She added salt, turmeric, a pinch of asafoetida. Only then did she glance over her shoulder.

“Haan,” she said. “Sab bilkul theek hai.”

He lingered, searching her face for cracks he wouldn’t find.

[Rocky]

No extra people bro, pls

Add more episodes between 3 and college episodes

Let son inform mom what his neighbor friend informed

[Repsbanna]

Plz story ko sirf 2 husband or wife par hi rkho . Female character ko dropadi k jaise presnt kro .
Koi teacher . Market . Son ka scene mat banao.
Dono husband or wife ka pyar . Jealous , passion bantao. Jyada khichdi mat banao

[Rocky]

Please update

[Innocent_Pervert]

The rumours didn't die down after the classroom incident with Professor Deshmukh. If anything, they grew legs and started running faster.


By the end of the week, the college gbangvine had turned vicious. My Friend Rohan's loose talk had done its damage — he kept adding "details" every time someone asked: how Maa and Uncle laughed late at night in the kitchen, how Papa never said a word, how she dressed "like she wants attention." He said it with a smirk, like it was funny. It wasn't.

In the boys' hostel group chat, screenshots of the reunion photos circulated again — zoomed in on her low pallu, the way her saree clung in the class. Captions like: "Bhai ki maa toh full item hai." "Uncle ke saath, dad silent? Yeh kya polyandry hai be?" Laughing emojis everywhere.

In class, guys started giving me looks — sideways glances, half-smiles when I walked past. One idiot in the back row whispered loud enough for me to hear: "Arre, teri maa aaj bhi college aayi kya? Blouse tight pehen ke?" The row laughed. I clenched my fists but didn't turn. What could I say?

Lunchtime in the canteen became hell. The same three seniors — Vikram, Amit, Rohit — sat at their bench like kings. When I passed with my tray, Vikram called out.

"Oye hero! Aa na baith. Teri maa ke baare mein baat kar rahe the."

I stopped. Heart pounding.

They didn't lower their voices.

Amit grinned. "Yaar, sach bata — ghar mein kya scene hai? Teeno ek bed pe? Ya bari bari kate ho?"

Rohit added fuel. "Aur dressing… bilkul porn star wali aunty. Low saree, tight blouse. College aake professor ko bhi line de di. Deshmukh toh ab bhi us din ki baat karta hai."

The table around them laughed. Phones out, recording discreetly.

Vikram leaned forward. "Bata na bhai. Teri maa itni hot kyun hai? 46 mein bhi curves killer. Hum bhi try kar len kya? Invite kar na ghar pe."

The laughter got louder. Someone clapped.

I felt heat rise in my face. Hands shaking. I wanted to punch something — Vikram's face, the table, anything. But I knew if I reacted, it would only get worse. They'd call me "mummy's boy" next.

I just walked away. Tray untouched. Stomach in knots.

That evening, I came home late. Didn't tell Maa anything at first. Sat in my room, scrolling through the group chats I'd been added to secretly. More photos. More jokes. "Bhai ki maa ka onlyfans link do yaar." "Uncle lucky bastard."
I felt sick.

Maa knocked on the door around 9. Came in with a glass of milk. Sat on the bed edge.

"Kya hua beta? Sab theek ?"

I looked up. Lied "Kuch Nahi maa, vo exams & presure"

By mid-week, the humiliation had layers.


In the morning assembly line, a group of second-years behind me started whispering loud enough:

“Bhai, teri maa professor ko bhi impress kar gayi”
Laughter. Someone mimicked a low whistle. I stared straight ahead, jaw tight
Lunch in the canteen became impossible. The seniors’ bench had become their stage. Vikram, Amit, Rohit — always there, always loud when I passed.

One day Vikram called out across the tables:

“Oye mummy ka beta! Aa na, aaj teri maa ka special prasad laaya hai kya?”

The whole canteen turned. Phones came out slow. Someone filmed from the side.

Amit joined in:
“Yaar bata na — ghar mein kya chal raha hai"

Rohit laughed hardest. “College aake bhi professor ko line de di. Deshmukh toh ab lecture mein bhi smile karta hai jab teri attendance ki baat aati hai.”

More laughter. A girl from my batch giggled behind her hand. A guy I used to play cricket with shook his head like he pitied me.

I stood there with my tray. Hands shaking so hard the plate rattled. Stomach twisting. I wanted to scream, throw the tray, punch Vikram’s face till it bled. But I knew — one reaction and it would explode bigger. They’d call me weak, mummy’s boy, say I couldn’t handle “the truth.”

I just turned. Walked out. Food untouched. Sat in the empty stairwell behind the library for twenty minutes, breathing hard, eyes burning.

Group chats kept buzzing. New memes: my face photoshopped onto a crying baby with caption “When your mom is hotter than your girlfriend.” Reunion dance photo edited with hearts around Maa and Uncle. “Family goals or family holes?” someone wrote. Emojis of fire and laughing faces.

I muted everything. But notifications still came. Anonymous DMs: “Bhai sach bata, teri maa kitne uncles ke saath?” “Photo bhej na, private dekh lenge.”

I deleted the apps for a day. Then reinstalled because I had to check if it was getting worse.

It was.
By Friday, even some girls I knew started giving pity looks in corridors. One classmate — Priya, who used to talk to me normally — came up quietly after class.

“Listen… ignore kar. Log jealous hain bas. Teri mom… she’s confident. That’s all.”

But her voice had that same pity. Like I was the victim in some sad story.

I nodded. Didn’t speak. Went home early.

That night I sat in my room, door locked. Scrolled through the worst messages. Felt small. Powerless. Like the whole college had stripped me naked and laughed.

I didn’t tell Maa. 
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long I could take it before something broke.

I had been carrying the weight for days — the whispers in corridors, the memes in group chats, the way people looked at me like I was part of some dirty joke. Rohan’s face kept flashing in my mind: that same smirk every time he “shared” another detail about Maa and Uncle, like it was entertainment.


I found him near the bike parking lot. He was leaning on his Activa, scrolling on his phone, laughing at something with two other guys from our batch. When he saw me coming, the laugh faded a little. He straightened up.

“Arre hero,” he said, trying to keep the tone light. “Kya hua? Face itna serious kyun?”

I stopped two steps away. Hands in pockets so they wouldn’t shake. Voice low but steady.

“Rohan. Band kar yeh sab.”

He blinked. Looked at his friends. They shifted uncomfortably but didn’t move.

“Kya band karun bhai? Main toh bas—”

“Bas?” I cut him off. Stepped closer. “Bas mazak? Bas ‘funny story’? Mere ghar ke baare mein, meri maa ke baare mein, sabko bata raha hai jaise koi serial hai. Photos forward kar raha hai. Seniors ko bhi bol raha hai. Kyun?”
He tried the grin again. “Arre yaar, chill. Sab jaante hain toh kya farak padta hai? Teri maa hot hai, log bolenge hi na. Jealousy hai bas.”

One of his friends snorted. I ignored him. Kept eyes on Rohan.

“Jealousy? Tu mera dost tha. Ghar aaya tha. Chai pi thi Maa ke haath ki. Aur ab unhi cheezon ko joke bana raha hai? Mere liye sharminda feel kar raha hoon college mein har din. Log mujhe ‘mummy ka beta’ bol rahe hain. Group mein memes daal rahe hain. Aur tu bol raha hai ‘chill’?”

Rohan’s grin slipped. He looked around — parking lot emptying, but a few people still lingering, ears open.
“Bhai… main toh mazak mein—”

“Mazak mein?” My voice rose just enough. “Meri maa 46 saal ki hai. Do bacchon ki maa hai. Ghar sambhaalti hai. Aur tu uske dressing, uske rishton ko porn joke bana raha hai? Tu sochta hai yeh funny hai? Mere liye yeh funny nahi hai. Mere liye yeh dard hai.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his shoes.

The other two guys started backing away slowly. “Yaar hum chalte hain…”

I didn’t stop them. Kept looking at Rohan.

“Ab se — ek bhi word nahi. Ek bhi photo forward nahi. Ek bhi ‘mazak’ nahi. Warna…”

I let it hang. Didn’t need to finish. He knew me well enough — I wasn’t the fighting type, but right now, the anger in my eyes was real.

Rohan exhaled slow. Rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry yaar. Sach mein. Main… over kar gaya. Delete kar deta hoon sab. Group se nikal jaunga agar tu chahe.”

I didn’t soften immediately. Just nodded once.

“Nahi nikalna. Bas band kar. Aur agar seniors ya koi aur pooche — bol dena galti ho gayi. Aur sorry bol dena mere taraf se bhi, agar zarurat pade.”

He looked up. Eyes guilty.

“Theek hai. Promise.”

I turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back.

“Aur Rohan… agli baar kisi ki maa ke baare mein aise mat bolna. Kabhi nahi pata kis din tera beta same feel karega.”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded. 

I left.

The confusion had been building inside me like a slow leak — drop by drop, day by day — until it felt like my chest was full of water I couldn’t drain.


I knew something was different at home. 
Was this normal? Was it wrong? Was I supposed to feel okay with it?

I couldn’t talk to Maa — she’d just smile that calm smile and say “everything is fine, beta,” like she always did when she wanted to end a conversation. Papa? He’d get uncomfortable, change the topic to my studies. Uncle? No way. He barely spoke to me directly anymore.

So I went to the only person who might listen without laughing or judging too hard: my cousin sister, Dipti. She was 23, same age as me, lived in the city for her job, but we’d always been close — the kind of cousins who texted memes at 2 a.m. and told each other secrets.

I called her that evening after dinner. Sat on the terrace, away from the house lights, voice low.

“Didi… mujhe baat karni hai. Serious wali.”

She answered on the second ring. “Bol na, kya hua? Awaaz itni serious kyun?”

I took a breath. Told her everything — not the dirty college jokes, but the real stuff. The way Maa had changed after going to native place. How Uncle smiled more now. How Papa seemed quieter but not angry. The bed arrangements I’d accidentally seen once or twice. The tension in the air that felt like love but also like something forbidden. How college rumours were making me question if my family was “broken” or “wrong.”

I ended with the question that had been choking me for weeks.

“Didi… yeh sab sahi hai kya? Ya galat? Main confuse hoon. Ghar mein sab normal behave kar rahe hain jaise kuch bada nahi ho raha, par mujhe lagta hai kuch bada ho raha hai. Aur main… main isme kya karun?”

There was a long silence on the other end. I could hear her breathing, thinking.

Then she spoke soft, careful.

“Listen, bhai. Main sach bolungi. Yeh jo ho raha hai… yeh traditional ‘sahi’ nahi hai. Society ke hisaab se galat hai. Log judge karenge, bolenge immoral, ganda, family destroy kar raha hai. College mein jo log mazak uda rahe hain, woh isi wajah se uda rahe hain — kyuki yeh unke liye shocking hai, forbidden hai.”

Another pause.

“Par… sahi ya galat sirf rules se nahi decide hota. Yeh tere ghar ke log hain. Tere maa-baap-chacha. Agar woh teeno khush hain, ek doosre ko hurt nahi kar rahe, force nahi kar rahe… toh yeh unka personal matter hai. Adult choice hai. Consent hai. Pyar hai — alag tarike ka, complicated, par real.”

I swallowed. “Par main kya feel karun? Mujhe guilt hota hai. Jaise main kuch galat jaan kar bhi chup hoon.”

Dipti sighed. “Guilt is normal. Confusion bhi normal hai. Tu abhi young hai, yeh sab process kar raha hai. Par sun — tu unka judge mat ban. Unhone tujhe paala hai, tujhe protect kiya hai. Ab tu unko judge karega toh sirf khud ko hurt karega. Agar comfortable nahi lag raha, toh dheere-dheere baat kar sakta hai Maa se. Seedha bol de — ‘Maa, mujhe samajh nahi aa raha, batao kya chal raha hai.’ Woh shayad khul ke batayegi.”

I stared at the dark sky. “Aur agar main accept nahi kar paaya?”

“Toh bhi theek hai. Tu apne feelings ko force mat kar. Time de khud ko. Par ghar se door mat bhaag. Yeh family hai — complicated, imperfect, par family.”

She paused again.

“Aur college wale? Ignore kar. Unka time waste hai. Tu apni life pe focus kar. Padhai, friends, future. Jo ghar mein ho raha hai… woh tere future ko define nahi karega. Tu define karega.”

I felt tears prick my eyes. First time in weeks I wasn’t angry — just tired, sad, but a little lighter.

“Thanks, Didi.”

“Anytime, bhai. Call karna jab bhi chahiye. Aur yaad rakh — tu akela nahi hai is confusion mein.”
I hung up. Sat there a while longer.

[Innocent_Pervert]

That Night

I stood outside the kitchen door for a long minute, heart thumping. The confusion had been eating me alive for weeks. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was normal. Not anymore.


I pushed the door open slowly.

Maa was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, her back to me. She wore a simple green cotton nightie — thin, sleeveless, the kind that clung to her curves when she moved. The kitchen light caught the fair skin of her arms,  she scrubbed a plate.

She didn’t turn right away. Just spoke over her shoulder.

“Beta? Abhi tak soya nahi?”

I stepped in. Closed the door behind me. Voice came out lower than I meant.

“Maa… mujhe baat karni hai.”

She rinsed the plate, set it aside, wiped her hands on the edge of her nightie. Turned slowly. The fabric stretched across her chest, outlining the heavy shape of her breasts, nipples faintly visible through the thin cotton. Fair skin glowing under the yellow bulb.

She looked at me — really looked. Saw the red in my eyes, the way my hands were clenched.

“Aaja. Baith.”

She pulled out a kitchen stool for herself. I sat on the other one. The small table between us felt like a wall.

She waited. Didn’t push. Just watched me with those calm, dark eyes.

I took a shaky breath.

She nodded once. “Bol na. Kya hua?”

I looked down at my hands. Then up at her.

“Ghar mein jo chal raha hai… aap, Papa, Chacha. Aapka Chacha ke saath hasna. Bed mein kaun kahan sota hai. Aapka saree pallu slip karna jab Chacha paas hota hai. Papa ka chup rehna. Sab kuch.”

Her face didn’t change. No shock. No anger. Just quiet listening.

I kept going. Words tumbling out.

“College mein log bolte hain. Rumours faila rahe hain. Kehte hain aap… aap bold ho. Kehte hain ghar mein… teeno… you know. Main unko ignore kar raha tha. Par ab mujhe lagta hai… shayad sach hai. Aur main soch raha hoon — yeh sahi hai kya? Galat hai kya? Family aisi honi chahiye? Ya main hi pagal ho raha hoon jo yeh sab normal samajh raha hoon?”
Silence stretched. Only the drip of the tap.

Maa exhaled slow. Leaned forward a little. 

“Beta,” she said softly. “Tu confuse isliye hai kyuki tu bada ho raha hai. Aur bade hone mein yeh sab sawal aate hain.”

She paused. Looked straight into my eyes.

“Haan. Jo chal raha hai… woh society ke hisaab se ‘sahi’ nahi hai. Log judge karenge. Bolenge galat, ganda, immoral. College mein jo log mazak uda rahe hain — woh isi wajah se uda rahe hain. Kyuki yeh unke liye shocking hai.”

She reached across the table. Took my hand in hers. Warm. Steady.

“Par yeh ghar hai. Hum teeno ke beech jo hai… woh pyar hai. Complicated pyar. Par pyar. Main dono ko pyar karti hoon — alag tarike se, par poore dil se. Papa ko bhi. Chacha ko bhi. Woh dono mujhe pyar karte hain. Hum teeno khush hain. Koi force nahi. Koi dhoka nahi. Bas… ek alag tarika hai zindagi jeene ka.”

I swallowed. “Par… galat nahi lagta?”

She smiled small. Sad and strong at the same time.

“Lagta hai. Kabhi kabhi mujhe bhi lagta hai. Jab main aaine mein dekhti hoon, sochti hoon — main kya kar rahi hoon? Par phir main un dono ko dekhti hoon. Papa ka pyar, Chacha ka pyar. Aur sochti hoon — agar yeh galat hai toh phir itna sukoon kyun hai? Itna khush kyun feel hota hai?”

She squeezed my hand.

“Beta, main tujhe kabhi nahi bolungi ki tu accept kar le. Tu apne feelings ko force mat kar.”

I looked at her face. Really looked. The woman who had raised me. Who had fought the world for us. Who was now fighting her own battles in a way I didn’t fully understand.

She shook her head.

“Guilt mat feel kar. Tu galat nahi hai. Tu bas… dekh raha hai. Aur samajh raha hai. Yeh normal hai. Time de khud ko. Jab ready hoga, baat kar lenge. Aur agar kabhi accept nahi kar paya… toh bhi theek hai. Tu mera beta hai. Hamesha rahega.”

She stood up. Pulled me into a hug. Her body soft against mine — breasts pressing gently, warmth of her skin through the nightie. Jasmine smell. Familiar. Comforting.

“Ab so ja. Teek hai?”

I nodded against her shoulder.

“Haan Maa.”

She kissed my forehead. Let me go.

After I left in bedroom:

Papa was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed in his vest and pajamas, scrolling through his phone without really seeing anything. When Maa finally came in, she closed the door softly behind her. The click felt louder than usual.


Papa looked up. “Beta so gaya?”

“Haan,” she said. “Par baat ki thi usne mujhse.”

Papa’s face tightened a little. He set the phone down. “Kya bola?”

Maa walked to the bed. Sat beside him — not too close, not too far. Her nightie was still the same green cotton one, thin straps, fabric clinging softly to her curves in the dim light. She pulled her knees up, hugged them loosely.

“Confuse hai beta. Sab dekh raha hai. Late night baatein. Bed arrangements. Mere aur Chacha ke beech closeness. Tumhara chup rehna. College mein rumours bhi sun raha hai. Pooch raha tha — yeh sahi hai kya, galat hai kya.”

Papa exhaled through his nose. Looked at the floor. “Kya jawab diya?”

Maa turned to him. Voice low, steady.

“Sach bola. Ki yeh society ke hisaab se ‘sahi’ nahi hai. Log judge karenge. Par hum teeno ke beech jo hai… woh pyar hai. Complicated, alag tarike ka, par real. Koi force nahi. Koi dhoka nahi. Hum khush hain.”

Papa was quiet for a long minute. Then he looked at her.
“Beta ko bata dena chahiye tha pehle se. Humne socha tha… woh samajh jayega dheere-dheere. Par ab yeh college wale rumours… uspe asar pad raha hai.”

Maa nodded. Reached out, placed her hand on his knee. Warm through the thin pajama.

“Haan. Par ab chhupana band. Kal subah chai pe baith ke teeno baat kar lenge. Seedha bata denge — yeh humara rishta hai. Tu accept kare ya na kare, hum tujhe pyar karte rahenge. Tu humara beta hai. Hamesha rahega.”

Papa covered her hand with his. Squeezed once.

“Tu hamesha sambhal leti hai sab kuch.”

She smiled small. Sad at the edges.

Next Morning

The next morning broke soft and slow, the kind of quiet that feels fragile after a long, sleepless night.


Maa was already in the kitchen when I came down.  She wore the same light pink cotton saree from yesterday — simple, everyday, Her hair was loosely tied, a few strands falling on her neck. She moved with that same quiet grace, but today her shoulders seemed heavier.

Papa was already at the table, newspaper open but unread. Chacha came in last, hesitating at the doorway like he wasn’t sure he belonged in this conversation. He sat anyway, hands folded on the table, eyes on his cup.

Maa set four plates down. No one touched the food yet.

She sat beside me — close enough that her knee brushed mine under the table. She looked at Papa first, then Chacha, then me. Her eyes were tired, but clear.

“Beta,” she began, voice low, almost a whisper. “Kal raat jo baat ki thi… uske baad main so nahi payi. Papa bhi nahi soye. Chacha bhi terrace pe baithe rahe the raat bhar.”

She paused. Swallowed once.

“Main jaanti hoon tu kitna confuse hai. Kitna dard ho raha hai. College mein log mazak uda rahe hain, rumours faila rahe hain, aur tu akela feel kar raha hai jaise yeh sab sirf tere saath ho raha hai. Par beta… yeh sirf tere saath nahi ho raha. Hum teeno ke saath bhi ho raha hai. Har roz.”

Papa looked up then. His eyes were red-rimmed. He spoke quietly, voice cracking just a little.

“Beta… maine yeh sab shuru kiya tha. Dadi ki wish ke naam pe. Socha tha temporary hai. Bas thoda time. Par… yeh temporary nahi raha. Main… main bhi ismein doob gaya. Maa ko dekh kar, Chacha ko dekh kar… mujhe laga yeh galat nahi hai agar hum teeno khush hain. Par ab tujhe dekh kar… mujhe lagta hai maine tujhe bhi hurt kiya. Tu mera beta hai. Tujhe yeh sab dekhna nahi chahiye tha.”

His voice broke on the last word. He looked away, hand covering his mouth like he was ashamed.

Chacha spoke next — voice thick, eyes wet.

“Tere Papa ne mujhe kabhi blame nahi kiya. Main… main toh bas ek toota hua aadmi tha jab teri Maa aayi meri jeevan mei. Meri Biwi gayi thi, papa bhi gaye the, kuch bacha nahi tha. Teri Maa ne mujhe jeena sikhaya. Hasna sikhaya. Pyar karna sikhaya. Main… main uska ehsaan chuka nahi sakta. Par ab tujhe dekh kar lagta hai main selfish tha."

Maa reached across the table. Took my hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm, slightly rough from years of work. Tears stood in her eyes — not falling, just shining.

“Beta… main bhi raat bhar sochti rahi. Main kya kar rahi hoon? Ek maa hoon main. Tujhe protect karna chahiye tha. Tujhe yeh sab se door rakhna chahiye tha. Par main… main bhi insaan hoon. Main bhi akeli thi kabhi. Tumhare Papa ke saath rishta toota nahi tha, par door ho gaya tha. Phir Chacha ke saath… woh pyar mila jo maine socha tha kabhi nahi milega. Main dono ko kho nahi sakti. Par tujhe kho dena… woh mujhe maar dalega.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it.

“Tu mujhse pooch raha tha — yeh sahi hai ya galat? Main tujhe sach bolungi. Yeh galat hai society ke hisaab se. Yeh galat hai bahut logon ke hisaab se. Par mere dil ke hisaab se… yeh sahi hai. Kyunki yeh pyar hai. Aur pyar kabhi galat nahi hota jab koi hurt nahi ho raha.”

She squeezed my hand tighter.

“Par ab tu hurt ho raha hai. Aur yeh sabse bada dard hai mere liye. Tu mera beta hai. Tera dard mera dard hai. Agar tu chahega toh main sab band kar dungi. Chacha ko alag kar dungi. Papa ke saath waise hi rahungi jaise pehle. Agar yeh tujhe sukoon dega… main kar dungi.”

Papa looked at her sharply. Chacha’s face paled. But neither spoke.

Maa continued, voice breaking now.

“Par agar tu yeh chahta hai… toh mujhe bata de. Abhi bata de. Kyunki main tujhse jhooth nahi bolungi. Main tujhse chhupana nahi chahti. Tu humara beta hai. Tu humari priority hai. Hamesha rahega.”

Tears were in my eyes now. I looked at all three of them — Maa’s tear-streaked face, Papa’s guilty eyes, Chacha’s bowed head.

The silence in the kitchen stretched after Maa’s words — heavy, full of everything unsaid for months. 

My throat felt raw, eyes stinging.

I looked at Chacha first.

He hadn’t lifted his head the whole time. Hands folded tight on the table, knuckles white. His shoulders were hunched like he was bracing for a blow he thought he deserved. The man who had lived alone for years, who had smiled more in the last few months than I’d ever seen him smile before. The man Maa had pulled back from the edge.

I pushed my stool back. Stood up slow.

Chacha finally looked up — eyes red, uncertain, waiting for the rejection he probably expected.

I walked around the table. Stopped in front of him.

He didn’t move. Just watched me, breath held.

I leaned down. Wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Hugged him tight — the way I hadn’t since I was small, when he used to carry me on his back during village fairs.

He stiffened for a second. Then his arms came up slowly, hesitantly, returning the hug. His shoulders shook once — a quiet, broken sound escaping his throat.

I spoke against his ear, voice low so only he could hear at first.

“Chacha… main accept kar raha hoon.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. Eyes wide, wet, searching my face like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

I nodded. Said it louder, so everyone could hear.

“Main accept kar raha hoon. Aapka aur maa ka rishta. Yeh pyar. Jo bhi hai aap teeno ke beech… main isse galat nahi bolunga ab se. Tum teeno khush ho. Aur main… main bhi tum teeno se pyar karta hoon"

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it. Just stared at me, like something inside him had cracked open.

“Beta…” His voice broke. “Tu… tu sach mein?”

I nodded again. Hugged him tighter.

“Sach mein. Bas time lagega samajhne mein. Par main judge nahi karunga. Aur college wale… unko ignore karunga. Yeh mera ghar hai"

Maa let out a soft, shaky breath. Her hand came to her mouth. Papa’s eyes filled too — he looked away quickly, but I saw.

Chacha hugged me back properly now — strong, grateful, like a man who had been forgiven something he never thought he would be.
We stayed like that for a long minute.

Then Maa stood. Came around. Wrapped her arms around both of us. Papa joined last — his big hand on my back, other on Chacha’s shoulder.

We stood there — four people in a small kitchen, tangled in a hug that felt messy, imperfect, but real.

[Innocent_Pervert]

A few days later Papa left for his trip

The house woke up slower than usual. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm and lazy. I came out of my room around 9 a.m., still in my sleep shorts and t-shirt, hair messy.


Maa was already in the living room — wearing nothing but a short, sheer white nightie that barely reached mid-thigh. The fabric was almost transparent in the morning light, clinging to her full, soft curves: heavy breasts swaying freely, dark nipples clearly visible, wide hips and rounded backside outlined perfectly, fair skin glowing. No panties, no bra — completely bare underneath.

Chacha was on the sofa in just his pajama bottoms, bare-chested. He looked up when I entered, gave a small, shy smile — no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance.

Maa turned from the window where she’d been stretching. Saw me. Smiled — warm, motherly, but with that new, unhidden heat in her eyes.

“Beta… uth gaya? Chai bana rahi hoon. Baith ja.”

She walked over to Chacha — hips swaying naturally — and sat sideways on his lap. The nightie rode up immediately, exposing her bare thighs and the soft curve where they met her hips. She leaned in, kissed him slow — lips parting, tongue brushing his, a soft hum of pleasure in her throat.

Chacha’s arms wrapped around her waist. One hand slid up under the nightie, cupping her breast openly — thumb circling the nipple until it hardened further. Maa arched slightly, breaking the kiss to moan low.

She looked at me — eyes soft but direct — while Chacha’s other hand slid between her thighs. Her legs parted wider on his lap, nightie pushed up to her waist now. Fair mound exposed, already glistening. His fingers moved slow, gentle at first, then deeper.

Maa’s breath hitched. “Haan… aise hi… dheere…”

She rocked against his hand — breasts bouncing under the thin fabric, nipples straining. Chacha kissed her neck, her collarbone, then took one breast into his mouth through the nightie — sucking softly, wet sounds filling the room.

She looked at me again — mid-moan.

“Beta… tu uncomfortable toh nahi feel kar raha? Bol de agar hai.”

I shook my head slowly. Voice quiet. “Nahi Maa… main… theek hoon.”

She smiled — loving, relieved — then moaned louder as Chacha’s fingers curled inside her.

She stood suddenly. Pulled the nightie over her head in one motion — completely naked now. Fair body on full display: full breasts, soft belly, wide hips, trimmed mound, thighs already slick.

She turned to Chacha — pushed him back on the sofa. Untied his pajama, pulled it down. His erection sprang free — thick, hard. She straddled him again — facing me this time — so I saw everything.

She sank down slowly — inch by inch — eyes closing in pleasure as he filled her.

“Aah… poora andar… kitna acha lagta hai…”

She began to ride — slow rolls at first, then deeper, harder. Breasts bouncing, hips grinding, soft flesh slapping against his. Chacha’s hands gripped her ass — spreading her slightly, thumbs brushing where they joined.

Maa’s moans grew — unfiltered, raw. “Haan… aur zor se… Devar ji"

She looked at me the whole time — eyes locked — loving, inviting me to witness without shame.

She came first — body trembling, cry long and shuddering, nails digging into Chacha’s shoulders. He followed seconds later — hips bucking up, groaning her name as he spilled inside her.

They stilled — breathing heavy. Maa leaned forward, kissed him tenderly. Then turned to me — still joined, still naked.

“Beta… aa na. Paas aa.”

I stood. Walked closer — hesitant but drawn.

She reached out. Took my hand. Placed it on her cheek — warm, soft.

“Tu humara beta hai. Yeh sab… yeh pyar ka hissa hai. Tu kabhi door mat feel karna.”

She pulled me into a hug — naked body against my t-shirt, breasts soft against my chest, warmth of her skin, scent of jasmine and sex.

Chacha watched — gentle smile.

Maa whispered against my ear.

“Ab tu jaanta hai. No more confusion. Theek hai?”

I nodded — throat tight.

“Theek hai, Maa.”

Then turned back to Chacha — still on his lap — and started moving again. Slower this time. More tender.

I didn’t leave.


I sat back down.
Watched.

The confusion wasn’t gone completely.
But the shame was. Replaced by something deeper.

[Innocent_Pervert]

The doorbell rang at 7:42 p.m. sharp.


Maa was in the kitchen, still in that soft peach satin slip—thin straps, deep V-neck, no bra, no panties. The fabric clung and shifted with every movement, turning almost see-through under the kitchen bulb. Chacha stood close behind her, one hand resting possessively on her hip while she guided his knife hand to chop the onions.

I was already on the sofa in the living room, legs stretched out, phone in hand but barely paying attention to the screen. My eyes kept drifting to them—how casually Chacha’s fingers traced the curve of her waist, how Maa leaned back into him for a second with a soft laugh.

The bell made us all pause.

Maa wiped her hands, gave Chacha a quick knowing glance, then walked barefoot to the door. The satin slip rode up slightly with each step, exposing the lower curve of her ass. She opened the door without bothering to adjust it.

Papa stood there—trolley bag, travel-worn shirt, tired but warm smile.

“Arre… main aa gaya,” he said.

Maa stepped into him, hugging tight—her nearly bare body pressing fully against his clothes. She kissed his cheek, then his lips—slow, lingering. I saw Papa inhale sharply, hands settling on her waist, feeling exactly how little she wore.

“Welcome home,” she murmured against his mouth.

Papa’s eyes lifted past her shoulder. He saw Chacha in the kitchen doorway—shirtless, pajama low, still glistening faintly from the day’s heat. Then his gaze landed on me—sitting right there on the sofa, watching quietly.
His smile tightened, just for a second.

Dinner passed in near silence.

Maa served Papa’s favorites: aloo matar, dal tadka, jeera rice, hot phulkas. She moved around the table in that slip like it was everyday wear—leaning low to refill his plate, breasts swaying heavily, dark areolas teasing the neckline’s edge.

I sat across from Papa, watching his spoon pause mid-air more than once. His eyes flicked between her chest, Chacha’s casual hand on her lower back as she passed, and me—his son—sitting calmly on the sofa earlier like none of this was new anymore.

After plates were cleared (Maa and Chacha handled it together), she led Papa by the hand straight to the big sofa. The same sofa I had been sitting on all evening.

She made him sit in the middle.

Then she climbed onto his lap—straddling him, knees bracketing his thighs, satin slip riding up to bare her ass completely. Chacha sat right beside them—thigh pressed to Papa’s.

I stayed where I was—on the same sofa, just shifted to the far end now, close enough to see every detail, far enough not to be in the way.

Maa cupped Papa’s face.

“Miss kiya mujhe?” she asked softly.

Papa nodded, throat working.

She kissed him—deep, tongue sliding in—while her hips rolled once, grinding down on the bulge already forming in his trousers.

Then she broke the kiss, turned her head slightly toward Chacha, and crooked a finger.

Chacha knelt on the floor in front of us all.

Maa guided his head between her open thighs.

Papa’s breath hitched audibly the moment Chacha’s tongue made contact—long, slow licks along her slick folds.

Maa moaned low, eyes locked on Papa’s the entire time.

“Dekho,” she whispered. “Yeh wohi cheez hai jo aap chhod gaye the apne bhai ke liye"

Papa’s hands gripped her hips harder—not pushing away, just holding on.

Chacha’s tongue worked deeper—wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet room. Maa rocked forward against his mouth, still staring at Papa.

“Feel karo… kitni geeli kar diya isne apni jeeb se, Kitna zor se suck kar raha hai meri chut. Aur aap ho ki bas dekh rahe ho.”

Papa groaned—half pain, half desperate need.

Maa reached down, unzipped him, freed his cock—thick, leaking, veins pulsing. She stroked him slowly while Chacha kept eating her.

Then she lifted herself slightly.

Guided Chacha to stand, pajama dropping.

His thicker cock sprang free.

Maa sank back down—but this time guiding Chacha behind her.

She leaned forward over Papa so he could see everything: Chacha pressing in from behind, inch by inch disappearing inside her while she held Papa’s gaze.

“Aahhh… dekho… poora andar ja raha hai na…”

She started moving—slow rolls at first, then deeper—breasts bouncing under the satin, nipples straining.

All the while she kept talking to Papa, voice husky and deliberate.

“Har raat jab aap jab bhi aap trip pe hote tha… Yeh shaitan devar aise hi mere andar ghusa deta tha. Par Ab toh aap yahan ho na… aur main ab bhi uske liye kyu itni geeli ho rahi hoon?”

Papa’s eyes were glassy. 

Maa slowed. Kissed him away one by one.

“Rona mat,” she whispered. “Main aapse pyar karti hoon.  Par ab main sirf aaoki nahi hun na Main dono ki hoon.”

She rode harder—Chacha thrusting up to meet her.

Papa suddenly groaned—deep, broken—and came hard in her hand, thick spurts coating her fingers while he watched another man fill his wife right in front of him, right on the sofa where his son was sitting just a few feet away.

Maa came seconds later—shuddering, crying Chacha’s name—then leaned down to kiss Papa through the aftershocks, swallowing his quiet sobs.

When it ended, she didn’t pull away immediately.

She stayed there—still joined with Chacha from behind, still straddling Papa—holding both their faces.

Maa shook her head gently.
“Mere dil mei sirf aap the, Par ab mera dil bada ho gaya hai. Usme dono ke liye jagah hai.” She winked

She finally eased off both of them—Chacha’s cum leaking slowly down her thigh.

She slid sideways between them on the sofa, pulling Papa into her arms. Chacha pressed close on her other side.

Then she looked over at me—still sitting at the far end of the same sofa, heart hammering.

“Beta… tu theek hai?”

I swallowed hard. Nodded.

“Haan, Maa.”

She smiled—small, tired, but peaceful.

Papa reached out with a shaky hand and squeezed my knee across the sofa.

“Sorry, beta… tere saamne yeh sab…”

I shook my head.

“Nahi Papa. Main… samajh gaya hoon.”

The four of us sat there—tangled on the big sofa—messy, raw, spent.

[Innocent_Pervert]

It was past 11 p.m. The house had gone quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional distant dog bark from the lane.


We were all in the big bed again—same arrangement. Maa in the middle, naked under a single thin sheet that barely covered anyone. Papa on her left, one arm dbangd across her waist. Chacha on her right, spooning her loosely. I lay on my side facing her, head pillowed on her shoulder, my t-shirt the only piece of clothing left in the room.

No one was sleepy yet.

Maa broke the silence first, voice soft and low.

“Aaj raat… sab apne dil ki baat bol den. Jo bhi mann mein hai—pyar, darr, khushi, chinta, guilt… jo bhi. Koi judge nahi karega. Bas sunenge.”

She turned her head toward Papa first.

“Aap shuru kariye”

Papa exhaled slowly. His fingers traced patterns on her hip.

“Main… ab bhi kabhi kabhi darr jata hoon. Ki tu mujhse door ho jayegi. Ki chote ke saath jo closeness hai… woh mujhe replace kar degi. Par jab tu mujhe dekhti hai, jab tu mujhe chhuti hai jaise abhi… woh darr chala jata hai. Aur main sochta hoon—yeh teeno ka pyar hai. Main ismein khush hoon. Par haan… jab tu uske saath hoti hai, mera lund khada ho jata hai. Jealousy bhi hoti hai… par usse zyada excitement hoti hai.”

Maa smiled tenderly. Kissed him softly.

“Shukriya bolne ke liye.”

Then to Chacha.

“Ab tum”

Chacha’s voice was thick.

“Main toh bas shukrguzar hoon, Bhabhi. Pehle zindagi khatam si ho gayi thi. Tu aayi, aur sab wapas shuru ho gaya. Har raat jab main tujhe chodta hoon, mujhe lagta hai main jee raha hoon. Aur ab jab beta bhi saath hai… mujhe lagta hai yeh pura parivaar hai. Kabhi kabhi sochta hoon… agar tu mere bacche ki maa bane toh kitna acha hoga. Par yeh sirf khayal hai—main kabhi force nahi karunga..”

Maa squeezed his hand.

Silence.

Then Maa turned her head toward me.

“Ab tu, beta. Jo bhi mann mein hai… bol de. Chhota sa bhi chalega.”

I felt my throat close. Heart pounding.

“mujhe achha lagta hai yahan. Sab ke saath. Pehle confuse tha. Darr lagta tha. Ab… sukoon hai.”

I stopped. Couldn’t say more.

Maa waited patiently. Then asked gently, “Aur kuch?”

I swallowed. “Aap… bohot sundar lagti ho. Hamesha. Jab aap hassti ho… ”

My face burned. That was it. No more came out.

Maa didn’t push. She lifted her hand to my cheek.

“Shukriya, beta. Yeh bhi bahut badi baat hai jo tune bola.”

She let the quiet stretch for a moment—long enough for everyone to feel the weight of what had been said.

Then she spoke again. This time her voice was quieter, almost trembling at the edges—vulnerable in a way I’d never heard before.

“Ab meri baari.”

She took a deep breath. Her hand found mine under the sheet—squeezed once.

“Yeh pyar… Tum dono se pyar… mujhe zinda feel karata hai. Har subah jab main uthati hoon aur tum dono mujhe dekhte ho—pyar se, bhook se, respect se—toh mujhe lagta hai main poori hoon. Main sirf maa nahi… main aurat bhi hoon. Main chahti hoon ki tum dono mujhe chhoo sako, mujhe feel kar sako, mujhe apna bana sako. Main chahti hoon ki tum dono mere andar aao—ek ek karke, saath saath—aur main tum sabko apne andar mehsoos karoon.”

Her voice dropped even lower.

My Face Turned Red.

Her confession hung between us—raw, honest, heavy with love and fear.


And somehow… it made everything feel even closer.
No one moved more that night.
But the door had cracked open a little wider.

[Repsbanna]

Very nice keep it up.

[Rocky]

Great going

[Rocky]

Update bro... Feels void without your updates

[Repsbanna]

Kab dega update... Bhai

[Repsbanna]

Kahani aage badegi ki nhi

[xfirefox]

ye teeno apne relationship ko apne bete ko samajhne ke liye bol rahe the but fir ekdum se uske saamne live broadcasting kyon shuru kar di, pehle pati se respect ke saath pyaar mila fir chacha ke saath understanding, respect aur extra pyaar (l**d) mila, ab bete ki understanding aur respect to mil gayi ab aur kya uska bhi pyaar (***d) chahiye.