My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read)

[wxxxx]

I sincerely request the author sunnythorve to take the story forward through skillful writing. The readers are eagerly waiting for the next update very soon.

[Tea_Kadai_Boy]

I understand the admin. There will be someone who will twist something which is normal in the story and it may escalate to something which will affect the site forum and admin.
As far as the story goes, it has attracted committed readers and will follow wherever it is posted by the author. If option 1 is chosen, the story will stay under this section.
But if option 2 is chosen, the story will lose one of its USP and its basic core. It may certainly confuse old readers.
Whatever it is, I have trust in the author. With his superb writing skills, imaginative story and character building, the author will never let the story drop from its high pedestal.

[V1star]

Sunny started masturbating after seeing those deleted photos in his mom's phone.
Later he concluded himself that his mom know that he is masturbating.
And sometimes his mom observed that his son watching her beauty while she was working. And didn't cover herself or not scolded him.
.after accepting his mom's affair and making her wear payal.first time she went out with house owner.
what will happen next.???

[byteson]

When will this new update be posted? Please let us know.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 24 (Continued)
30 November 2025 – Sunday

The door clicked shut and the room became too large.

For a few seconds I stood where I was, one hand still on the latch, as if the wood would tell me something if I waited. It did not. The corridor outside went quiet after the last soft chime of the payal faded down the first flight. Then there was only the tube light I had already switched off and the weak yellow circle of the night bulb near the bathroom.

I turned.

The folding table was still closer to the wall, the way she had moved it so that three people could sit. Two extra steel plates sat in the basin, not washed. A third plate was tilted against the tap. Rice grains were stuck to the rim. A thin film of gravy had dried on the steel in the shape of a thumb. The box of mutton was gone — she had taken it down — but the smell had not gone with it. Garlic. Something faintly burnt. The rawness near the bone that she had swallowed anyway. It sat in the kitchen corner and mixed with the leftover smell of her perfume and the heavier perfume he had walked in with.

The loose-legged chair was still at an angle from when he had sat back in it as if the evening still had another hour inside it. The cushion of the bed where her green pallu had rested was slightly crushed. I sat on my own side and looked at the wall clock.

Nine-fourteen.

Ten minutes, she had said. The vessels are already in the sink. Don’t wait with the light on if you feel sleepy.

I was not sleepy.

I got up and went to the window.

From our grill the lane was a narrow strip of orange light and dark patches. The main gate was visible if I stood at the left edge and bent a little. The watchman’s plastic chair was empty. Two scooters were parked at their usual angle. The white sedan was in the strip, not moving. No one crossed the compound. No pallu. No black pathani. No steel box catching the light.

She had not come out.

She was inside his house.

The knowledge was simple. It still changed the way the air sat in my chest.

I went back to the bed. The sheet was cool on her side. I did not lie down at first. I sat with my feet on the floor and watched the second hand of the clock do a full circle. Then another.

Nine-sixteen.

The first ten minutes had a shape. I tried to give them work.

I thought of the plates again. I thought of the dinner. I thought of Monday. Office. The glass cabin. Mr. Sinha’s hand going up in the middle of my sentence. The numbers from before the freeze. The way Rohan had looked at his notepad and Vikram had looked at the table. *You are not fully here today.* He had been right. I had not been in that cabin. I had been in this room, and on the stairs, and in the hotel videos I was not supposed to have seen.

If I slept now I would go to office tomorrow with the same thin face Ma had noticed. If I stayed awake I would go with less than that.

I opened the laptop because opening it felt like a decision. The screen was too bright. I lowered it. The module I had corrected on Friday stared back — neat, finished, already sent. There was nothing to do except pretend there was something to do. I closed it.

Nine-eighteen.

What were they doing.

The sentence arrived without permission. I tried to push it toward the ordinary version. Ammi in her chair. The maid away till Tuesday. The steel box opened. Ma explaining the salt and the pink bone in a careful voice. Azad Sahab laughing the way he had laughed at our table. Tea. A hello. The box left on their centre table. Ma climbing back.

That version had ten minutes inside it. Maybe twelve. It did not need the way his hand had sat on her waist under the pallu. It did not need *ten minutes is what you told the boy.*

I looked at the clock.

Nine-twenty.

The heat started low, the way it had started on other nights, and I hated that it had a timing. First the chest. Then the stomach. Then lower. I saw the green blouse as it had sat on her when she stood for him. I saw his fingers under the cloth. I saw the hotel sheet from the video, white, and her mouth, and the way she had looked up before she did what she did. I did not ask the images to come. They came because the room was empty and the gate was empty and the only place left for her was the large flat downstairs.

I was hard before I finished the thought.

I sat forward and pressed my palm against my thigh as if that was a kind of order. It was not. The body did not take orders from the part of me that had spoken acceptance on Thursday night. That part had used careful sentences. This part only knew the smell of his perfume on the chair and the fact that my mother had walked out of this room laughing.

I stood up and went to the bathroom and ran cold water on my wrists. The latch was still weak. The small rectangle smelled of soap and the leftover steam of no one’s bath. I looked at my face in the mirror above the tap. It looked like the face of someone waiting for a bus that was already late.

*Even if they are doing that,* I told the glass, *why should I sit here and make it larger.*

She had asked me to accept it. I had said yes. Not only because she cried. Because fighting the decision inside these four walls only broke her. That was still true. The arrangement was not a rumour anymore. The payal on her feet were not a rumour. The bike downstairs was not a rumour. If she was in his room or in his corridor or in the chair next to Ammi, that was the life she had chosen. My job was to go to office and eat the tiffin and not turn every hour into a courtroom.

The speech sounded clean in the bathroom. It sounded less clean when I walked back and the mutton smell was still in the corner.

Nine-twenty-two.

I lay down on my side, facing the wall, the way I did when I wanted sleep to arrive out of stubbornness. The fan moved the air in slow circles. Somewhere below a television volume rose for a few seconds and fell. A scooter passed in the lane.

I closed my eyes.

I opened them.

Nine-twenty-four.

Ten minutes had finished. She had not come.

I did not get up at once. I had decided, in the bathroom, not to make it larger. A few extra minutes in a ground-floor house with an old woman and a steel box was not a crime. Ammi spoke slowly. Plates took time. A hello took time. Ma would be careful with the pallu in front of his mother. Careful things took longer than careless ones.

I turned onto my back and looked at the ceiling. The same ceiling I had looked at in June when the only late thing in this house was my laptop.

The heat had not gone. It had only sat down next to the anxiety and made itself comfortable. I put my arm over my eyes. I thought of code. I thought of the revised scope document. I thought of Sameer asking if the food was from home. None of it held. What held was the shape of her mouth when she had almost laughed at the door. *Ten minutes is what I told him. Walk.*

Nine-twenty-eight.

Another four minutes. Still nothing on the stairs.

I sat up.

The decision not to worry lasted until the body refused it. My mouth was dry. I drank water from the steel glass on the table. The glass had been his. I noticed that too late. I kept it down harder than I needed to.

Nine-thirty.

Twenty minutes from the time they had left.

A car engine turned in the lane.

I was off the bed before the sound had finished arriving. My knee hit the folding table. The table scbangd. I did not care. I reached the grill and looked down, breath held, the way a person holds breath when a name is about to be called.

Headlights swept the compound. A small silver car, not his, turned in too fast and stopped near the opposite wall. A man I did not know got out with a plastic bag. He called something to the first-floor window. A woman’s voice answered. The man went up. The silver car stayed.

Not them.

The white sedan had not moved.

I checked the clock even though I had just seen it.

Nine-thirty-two.

The anxiety changed quality. Earlier it had been waiting. Now it was the beginning of going. I could feel the stairs in my legs before I had decided to use them.

What if I went down and someone was on the landing.

The thought was immediate and ugly. Sunita’s door. The steel glass in her hand. *The boy who stays quiet.* Mrs. Desai’s window. The two men who had been in our corridor when Azad Sahab arrived, the small knowing tilt of the head. If they saw the son of the third floor walking toward the ground-floor door at half past nine, the story would write itself before I opened my mouth. I had no sentence prepared. *I came for the box* was a lie. *I came for my mother* was the truth, and the truth was worse.

I stood in the middle of the room and hated the size of it.

Then I picked up my phone, put it in my pocket, and walked to the door.

The latch turned without much sound. I pulled the door open and the corridor air was cooler. I had one foot out when the other thought arrived, late and practical.

The key.

If I closed this door I would be locked out of my own house in a building that was already watching.

I went back in. I took the keys from my office bag. I locked the door from outside. The sound of the lock was louder than I wanted.

The stairwell smelled of damp concrete and old cooking, the same as always. The light on the second floor was still weak. I went down slowly, not because I wanted to be slow, but because slow feet make less noise than fast ones.

First-floor landing.

Sunita’s door was shut. No steel glass. No voice. A thin line of light under the wood, then nothing. I did not look at it longer than I needed to. I passed.

Ground floor.

The common corridor here was wider. His door was at the end, the heavy one, the one that closed with an expensive sound our door upstairs had never made. It was shut. Fully. No two-inch gap. No voices leaking into the passage. The brass handle did not move. I did not touch it.

Standing in front of that door was worse than standing in our room. If it opened now I would have to explain my face.

I turned toward the compound instead.

Night in our building does not fall evenly. The front is orange from the gate light and the two bulbs near the parking strip. The sides go dark faster. The rear side, where the ground-floor windows look toward the internal courtyard and the back lane, is the darkest. There are thick bushes there, the kind that were planted years ago and then never really cut. Small trees lean toward the wall. The ground is uneven — old construction rubble under soil, a drain cover that sits a little high, the sort of place you can twist an ankle if you are in a hurry.

I had never walked that side at night with a purpose. Actually, nobody usually did.

Azad Sahab’s flat occupied the whole ground floor. From the front you saw the main door and one set of living-room windows behind a short grill. Those windows usually had the inner curtains open in the evening. The glass was thick. The frames were better than ours — newer cladding, tighter rubber, the kind of windows that keep the lane out and the voices in. If you stood in the compound like an ordinary person you could see inside if the lights were on. You could not hear words. To hear words you would have to be close enough that anyone inside, turning their head, might see a face where a face should not be.

The kitchen was further along the side wall. The bedrooms faced the rear. Getting to the bedroom windows meant going deeper into the dark, past the bushes, along a strip of ground that sloped a little toward the drain. Possible. Not easy. A person could slip. A person could catch a branch and make a sound. A person could be seen from the first-floor rear window if someone happened to look down.

I told myself I would only look at the living room.

I stepped off the paved strip.

The first bush caught my shirt. I stopped, freed it, and went lower. The soil was damp. My chappal was already worn out enough that it had no grip. I put one hand on the wall. The plaster was rough and cool.

A dog barked once in the next lane and then stopped.

I reached the angle where the living-room glass began.

The curtains were open. The high ceiling I had seen on Thursday was yellow with warm light. The centre table was the same glass one. The covered plate from our earlier visit was not there. A different plate was there now — steel, open, food on it.

Ammi sat in her chair.

She was eating. Slowly. A spoon, then a pause, then the spoon again. A cushion supported her back. Her hands looked older under this light than they had in the afternoon of sweets.

Ma sat on the nearer sofa, not too close to Azad Sahab, close enough to serve. The dark green saree was still in place. The pallu was arranged higher than it had been in our room. In front of his mother she had made herself neat. She leaned forward once and pushed the steel box an inch closer to Ammi. I could not hear the words. I could see the shape of them. Polite. Careful. The same face she had used when Ammi had spoken about cardamom.

Azad Sahab sat on the larger couch.

Even through glass his body did not look like a man at rest. One ankle was over the other knee, then it came down. His fingers tapped the armrest once and stopped. He said something short. Ma looked at him, then back at Ammi, then smiled at whatever Ammi had said. The smile was for the older woman. The look in between was for him.

His face did not smile.

Urgency sat in the way he held his mouth. A little anger. A little of the same tightness I had heard on the phone last night when he said the waiting was bullshit. He turned his head toward Ma and lifted his chin a fraction, a hint that did not need sound. She pretended not to see it and offered Ammi water.

I stood in the dark with my shoulder half in a bush and watched my mother serve food in another man’s house while his mother ate and he counted minutes with his eyes.

Ammi said something that made Ma nod too quickly. Respect.

Azad Sahab stood.

He did not announce it with a big movement. He simply got up and walked toward the inner passage — the same passage that led to the kitchen. His pathani looked darker under their lights than it had under our tube light. At the edge of the room he spoke without turning fully. I saw Ma’s face change. She glanced at Ammi.

Ammi moved her hand in a small push. Go. See what he wants. The gesture was ordinary, domestic, the kind that happens a hundred times in houses where a son calls from another room.

Ma stood.

She adjusted the pallu first. Both hands. Neat. Decent. The silver bracelet caught their ceiling light. Then she walked after him, not fast, the payal doing their work on a floor I could not hear.

They left the living room.

Ammi continued eating. She did not look toward the kitchen. She looked at her plate and continued eating.

[Aragon]

Good to that you are back with updates... Again a top notch update & waiting for the next part...

[Playboy9691]

Nice quick update. Keep going

[wxxxx]

This small update has not fulfilled the long-awaited hopes of the readers. Readers are expecting a big update of Chapter 23 of the story My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read) from the author sunnythorve.

[Authorsunny]

Author update (correction)

Guys, a short correction to what I posted earlier.

I had said I would open a new thread in the main section after finishing this day’s journal and then repost a slightly redone version there.
That plan has changed.

However, after giving it some more thought and considering the feedback, I am not creating a new thread, instead I have slightly modified the current thread.

What I have done in this thread:

- Landlord’s name is now Azad (not Imran).

- All community / interfaith labels are removed.

- Contrasts that were earlier read as (H!ndu–Musl!m are now only believer in God vs atheist.

Nothing remains that demeans any religion.

The story itself is the same though: Sunny’s journal, the one-room flat, Ma, the landlord, the slow burn. Only the guideline-sensitive parts are cleaned.

Thank you all once again for all the support, understanding and love!

Next update coming soon!

- Sunny

[Minki]

disappointed ok by

[saka1981]

Good decision. I’m also happy to see this story back on the main list. This story deserves to be read by many more people.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 24 (Continued) – Ten Minutes 
30 November 2025 – Sunday Night 

I had to move.

The kitchen window was further along, past a downpipe and a thicker cluster of leaves. The ground sloped. I went sideways, not straight, because straight would have taken me across a patch of open light from their dining-room bulb. A branch scbangd my forearm. I bit down on the sound. My chappal slipped once on wet soil and I grabbed the downpipe. The metal was cold and dirty. I stayed still until I was sure no face had come to any window.

The kitchen glass was smaller. The top was open two or three inches, enough for steam, enough for voices if a person was closer than they should be. The inner light was harder, whiter than the living room. I could not see the whole kitchen from the first place I found. The hob. A slice of fridge. No people.

I shifted again, lower, almost on one knee. A stone pressed into the bone. Something living moved in the bush to my right and then went still. I put my eye to the gap that the open window and the angle of the wall would allow.

They were there.

Ma’s back was against the wall beside the tall fridge. Not the cooking wall. The side wall, where a person standing at the hob would not be seen from the living-room doorway if the angle was right. Azad Sahab had her there. One of his hands was on her waist, flat, over the green blouse and the saree at the place where the cloth folded. The other hand held her left wrist up against the wall, above her head. The sleeveless blouse had lifted with the arm. The underside of her arm was bare. Her armpit was clean, the skin smooth in that white light. She has started shaving it regular, since she has started wearing sleeveless blouses.

His body boxed her in. Not fully pressed. Close enough that the box was clear.

His eyes were large in the way anger makes eyes large. Not shouting-anger. The other kind. The kind that had sat in our room after the dinner.

Her eyes were not angry. They were smaller. Sorry. Soft. The look she used when she wanted a mood to come down without giving the whole house away.

The open window carried their voices in pieces at first, then more clearly as my ear found the gap.

“—not into the room,” he was saying. The first words were already in the middle. I had missed the start because of the bushes. “Not while Ammi is sitting there with a plate. I will not walk my mother past that. You understand or not?”

“I understand.” Ma’s voice was low, breathy from the way her chest was held. “I never asked for the room. I said I would give the box and come back.”

“You said ten minutes to the boy.”

“It is already more than that.”

She tried to bring her raised arm down. He did not let it down at once. His thumb moved once against the inside of her wrist, then he eased the hold, not fully releasing.

“Azad Sahab. Please. He has only just started accepting this. Thursday he sat with me and said it properly. I don’t want to take advantage of that the same week and stay out like I have no house of my own. He will wait. He will look at the clock. I know my son.”

“If he accepted, then what is the fear.” His voice went up half a step and then he caught it, remembering the living room. “Accepted means accepted. Not accepted for tea and a steel box. You think I came up three floors tonight to only have food and chit chat?”

“Shhh. Azad Sahab, keep your voice down please. Ammi will hear otherwise”

“My voice is down. You are the one who brought me here with food for Ammi and then stood two feet away the whole evening as if I am some guest.”

Ma’s throat moved. The gold chain sat in the hollow of it. 

“I have to go please,” she said. “It is already twenty - twenty five minutes. Maybe more. I told him ten.”

“Then tell him something else when you go up. You have told him many things these months. One more will not break the building.”

“That is not funny, Azad Sahab, please.”

“I am not trying to be funny.” He leaned in. The hand on her waist pulled her an inch off the wall and then put her back. “If the boy is such a problem tonight, we go to your flat. Send him to the kitchen. The room is small but we can manage in the living room. I have waited since celebration night. You know how many days that is.”

Ma’s face changed. The softness stayed, but something in the mouth tightened. She did not like that idea. I saw it clearly even from the dark. The same bed. The same folding table. The son told to wait in the corner, left to hear moans of his own mother. She shook her head once, small, firm.

“Please don’t be stupid Azad Sahab,” she said. “You know we can’t do that. Not there. Not with him in the house. I will not do that to him. Accepting is one thing. Asking him to go to kitchen is another. I am not that kind of a woman Azad Sahab, please try to understand.”

“Then which woman are you tonight. The one who wears what I buy and sits on the bed with her pallu falling, or the one who runs upstairs because a clock is moving.”

“Both,” she said, and the word came out tired. “I am both. You knew that when you came. I have a son. You have a mother in the next room. We are not two people in an empty house.”

He laughed once, short, without humour. The sound was small enough that Ammi would have taken it for a cough if she heard it at all.

“Empty house. I own this building and I cannot take you ten steps to a bed because my mother’s knees are bad and your son has a clock. This is the life you have given me.”

“I have not given you a life to throw in my face.” Her raised hand, now free enough, came down and rested on his chest, not pushing, only there. “Don’t talk as if I trapped you. You called. You came. You sat in my house in front of him. I invited you because you were angry on the phone. I am standing here because Ammi told me to see what you want. What you want is not possible in the next five minutes, Azad Sahab. That is all I am saying.”

His jaw worked.

He looked at her mouth. Then at the place where the sleeveless blouse held her. Then back at her eyes.

“You think I am a boy you can calm with one hand on the chest.”

“I think you are angry because you missed me,” she said, quieter. “That I understand. I missed you also. But missing does not mean we do a wrong thing in the kitchen while your mother eats the food I packed. Let me go up. Tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow I am not asking.” The sentence came out flat. “Tomorrow I am coming. Afternoon. Before he comes from office. You will not go to the market. You will not sit with some story about the building watching. You will be in that room.”

Ma closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them the pity was still there, and under it a kind of surrender that was not complete and was not nothing.

“Don’t say it like revenge.”

“It is not revenge. It is days. You made the days. I sat with them.” His hand at her waist slid an inch higher, under the pallu, onto the blouse at the side of her ribs. She drew a breath and did not stop him. “I will make up for the waiting.”

“Azad Ss….”

“Say yes.”

She looked toward the kitchen door — the living room, Ammi, the plate. Then she looked back at him.

“Come in the afternoon,” she said. “Before he comes. We will have enough. Not the whole evening. That is what I can give tomorrow. Tonight I have to go back. I have to. Please”

The anger in his face did not leave in one piece. It changed shape. He used what was left of it. He pulled her off the wall in one movement and brought her against him so that her hands had nowhere ordinary to go. They went where they went — up, around his neck, the way a woman holds a man when she has stopped pretending the hold is accidental. Her bangles made a small sound against the collar of the pathani. The payal would have sounded too if I could have heard the floor.

From the window I saw the side of her face and the full line of his jaw.

She smiled.

Not a large smile. The small one she used when she wanted a storm to become weather. She let him touch where his hand wanted to touch. The waist. The place above it. The back, under the pallu, the bare skin along the blouse edge. Her body fitted to him in the white kitchen light as if the fridge and the hob and the smell of garlic from his failed mutton were not there.

“Don’t be angry now,” she whispered. I heard it because the window was open and because she had put the whisper near his ear and the wall sent it out. “I am here. I said yes for tomorrow. Don’t spoil the yes.”

“You said yes because I held you.”

“I said yes because it is true. I also cannot keep postponing you for the stairs and the neighbours. I only cannot do it tonight with Ammi ten steps away and Sunny upstairs looking probably waiting. You would not like it either if the positions were different.”

He made a sound that was not agreement and not refusal.

Then he kissed her.

There was no small beginning. His mouth landed on hers the way his hand had landed on her waist in our room — as if the permission was already old. Her head went back against the wall and then came forward again. For a second her eyes were open. Then they were not. The wrist he had held up earlier found the back of his neck. The other hand pressed into his shoulder.

It was not a doorway kiss. Not the controlled corner-of-the-mouth thing from Thursday when Ammi’s line of sight had been blocked. This was the kitchen version of the hotel. He turned her face with his thumb and took the kiss deeper. I saw her mouth open. I saw her give the angle he wanted. I saw the moment she stopped only receiving and started answering — her lips moving, her breath leaving through her nose, her body tightening and then softening against the pathani.

His hand at her ribs spread. The blouse pulled. The upper curve of her breast lifted against the green cloth and his fingers followed the cloth, not under it yet, close enough that the difference would not have mattered to anyone standing where I was standing. She made a small sound into his mouth. Not loud. Enough for the open window. Enough for me.

I held the downpipe so I would not lean into the glass.

The kiss broke once. A thin string of air. Their foreheads stayed close.

“You taste of my bad mutton,” he said, and the anger had gone thin enough to let a half-smile in.

“You should not have cooked,” she said against his mouth. “I told you.”

He kissed her again for that. Shorter. Then again, longer, as if the correction needed a reply. Her fingers were in the hair at the back of his head now. She let him enjoy it. That was the only word that fitted. She let him. And then she took some of it back for herself, rising a little on her feet, the payal doing their hidden work, the pallu slipping off the shoulder she had so carefully arranged for Ammi.

His mouth left hers and went to the side of her throat, just above the chain. She tipped her head. The clean line of her neck was there for him in the white light. He did not suck long — but he stayed long enough that her hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” he said into her skin. “Afternoon. I will come when Ammi sleeps. She sleeps after lunch. You keep the door ready.”

“Yes.”

“If the boy comes early—”

“He will not. Office is office. I will message you when I have packed the lunch for you and Ammi. Come after that.”

He lifted his head and looked at her as if checking whether the sentence had a hole in it. Then he kissed her once more, slower, almost like a seal on a paper. She took that one with her eyes closed and her mouth already soft.

When it ended she was breathing faster. So was he. The kitchen held them a second longer than it needed to.

Ma’s eyes went to the door again.

“We should go to the hall,” she said. The practical voice was returning, thin at the edges. “Ammi will think something is wrong with the gas. Or with you. I don’t want her to call.”

“Let her call.”

“Azad. Please. I came to give food. Let me look like I gave food.”

He did not move off her at once. His hand stayed at her waist as if the waist belonged in that grip. Then he stepped back half a step. She used the half step to pull the pallu up, to smooth the blouse where his hand had been, to bring her arm down from his neck. The armpit disappeared under the sleeveless cloth. The decent woman arranged herself over the woman who had just had her mouth opened against a fridge wall.

He watched her do it. The frustration was not gone. It had only been given a time: tomorrow, afternoon.

“Go,” he said. “Smile at her. Talk about the food. Then you can count your ten minutes on the stairs.”

She touched his wrist once, a small thank-you that was also a request to keep his face normal.

“Come,” she said.

They turned toward the living room.

I saw her take the first step away from the wall. I saw him follow, close enough that anyone coming the other way would have understood, far enough that Ammi would only see a son and a guest returning from the kitchen. The green saree moved. The black pathani moved.

That was all the window gave me before their bodies left the slice of light I had.

I stayed on the wet soil with the stone still in my knee and the downpipe in my hand, and listened to the faint change of their footsteps on tiles I could not see.

They were going back to the hall.

[saka1981]

I thought Azad would have Anjali at his house and be intimate with her, but you changed that completely. Your posts always leave me wondering what is going to happen next. I hope the next episode comes soon. I’m eagerly waiting!

I refresh the story page every 15 minutes, just to check if a new chapter has been posted. You’ve made me so addicted to your story that I just can’t wait for the next update!

[Anubantu]

Nice update
Waiting for tomorrow episode at afternoon

[V1star]

Sunny won't get sleep tonight
By thinking about tomorrow he will get fever by morning
Looking forward for the conversation b/w mom and son & son's thoughts about his mom&azad.for what they did tonight &planned for tomorrow.
(After lights turn off in their flat sunny will beat himself imagining his mom ).

[Leo Arya]

Again an amazing update... What will happen tomorrow???..
keen to know that...

[V1star]

[V1star]

[Ritoo]

i think now sunny feeling relaxed now
his mother with AZAD not with IMRAAN MANY REEDERS FEEL RELAXED NOW

[Authorsunny]

I thought Azad would have Anjali at his house and be intimate with her, but you changed that completely. Your posts always leave me wondering what is going to happen next. I hope the next episode comes soon. I’m eagerly waiting!

I refresh the story page every 15 minutes, just to check if a new chapter has been posted. You’ve made me so addicted to your story that I just can’t wait for the next update!

Wow, that’s a huge compliment — thank you. I’m really glad my first story landed so well with you guys. Comments like this give me a lot of motivation and energy to keep writing quality content. 

I wish I could post a new chapter every 15 minutes, haha. But as you would understand, writing this kind of story isn’t easy. I’m trying to hold emotion, realism, and sensuality together at the same time, and stay on the right side of that line so it never tips into something creepy.

That said, I can promise more regular updates from here on. 

Keep reading.