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

[Minki]

I guess when lust takes over, one becomes shameless. Lets not call her mother anymore lol
Defending her is a disgrace now to the word.
One needs to know how to keep a relationship proper, maintain dignity on private matters else they are nothing but two street dogs coupling on the side of a road.

~ RCF

you are right i wish author beware on this post

[rp7575]

Bhai aapne story ko bphot amazing tareke se play kiya hai keep it up bro update regurly dalte rehna aur jaldbazzi mat karna kisse ki bolne pe aur story me please....mujhe aapse personally contact karna hai for story purpose can we conected

[Authorsunny]

Bhai aapne story ko bphot amazing tareke se play kiya hai keep it up bro update regurly dalte rehna aur jaldbazzi mat karna kisse ki bolne pe aur story me please....mujhe aapse personally contact karna hai for story purpose can we conected

Thanks for the encouragement, buddy! Reading critical comments, even though I think they're fine, sometimes makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong. 

But comments like yours, bring back the energy and passion to write further.

Sure, I dont know what is the policy here about posting TG or other platforms usernames and all, but you can either msg me or email me on - 

[email protected] 

Thanks again!

[Authorsunny]

great going dear what  a skill not any sex session more exciting feeling this is the beauty please don't miss out this feeling when actual sex session being happened great going  please keep it up

Yeah, expectations for the sex scene are going to be pretty high now. But I’ll make sure to live up to them.

Earlier I was a little skeptical about whether the story could hold attention or keep growing without a proper sex scene for so long… but it actually did. And readers like you clearly enjoy it. So I’m glad. Let’s hope for the best.

[Leo Arya]

One thing must say... Those who are not reading the story, will miss a masterpiece

[Authorsunny]

One thing must say... Those who are not reading the story, will miss a masterpiece

A very big complement brother. Thank you.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 6

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

As we left the mall, we walked to the parking lot. Azad Sahab told me to load the shopping bags in the boot. Then we all got in the car and drove out of the mall towards crackers market.

The cracker market sat on an open stretch of ground near the highway, a temporary city of coloured tents and smoke. Even in the afternoon the air already smelled of gunpowder. Children ran between the stalls with sparklers. Men shouted prices. The ground was littered with torn packaging and spent matches from people testing small bombs.

Azad Sahab parked a little away from the main entrance. As soon as the car stopped Ma turned in her seat and looked straight at me.

“Come. Today you will choose whatever you want. No looking at the price. I am serious.”

Her voice had changed. The controlled, slightly distant tone from the restaurant was gone. In its place was the older, warmer voice I remembered from childhood celebration when she used to take me to the small local stall near our previous building and let me pick two extra packets of anaars even when money was tight.

I stepped out. She was already walking ahead, the soft peach material moving quickly around her legs. Azad Sahab locked the car and followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression that mixed amusement and ownership.

Ma stopped at the first big stall and began pointing.

“Sunny, come here. These long ones — the rockets — take two packets. And those chakris, the big ones. You used to love them when you were small.”

“Ma, we don’t need so many.”

“We need exactly this many. It is celebration . For once don’t calculate.” She turned to the stall owner. “Give me four packets of the rockets, six of the chakris, and those colour bombs in the blue box. Yes, those.”

The man began pulling packets off the shelves. Azad Sahab came up beside her and spoke quietly.

“Let him choose also. You are selecting everything yourself.”

Ma glanced at him, then at me, and smiled — a real, open smile that reached her eyes.

“You choose then,” she said to me. “Anything. That big anaar, the one that goes on the ground and throws colours. And the laris. Take the long lari. We will hang it from the window grill later.”

I pointed at a few things. Each time she nodded immediately and added two more packets to the pile. The stall owner’s eyes kept moving between the three of us, trying to understand who was paying and who was in charge. When the first heap looked large enough Azad Sahab simply took out his card and handed it over without asking for the total. The man swiped it on a small machine that worked on battery. No one mentioned the amount.

We moved to the next stall. Ma’s excitement did not reduce. She picked up a packet of small bombs, turned to me, and pressed it into my hands.

“Remember how you used to close your ears and still ask for one more? Take these. We will burst them near the gate so the sound travels.”

“You are buying too much.”

“I am buying the right amount.” She looked at Azad Sahab. “Tell him it is all right.”

Azad Sahab shrugged, the gesture casual and absolute.

“It is all right. Take whatever she is giving. Your mother has decided to enjoy today.”

There was a mild edge under the words — a reminder that her enjoyment was happening under his money and his time. Ma either did not notice or chose not to notice. She was already at the third stall, asking about the price of a large fountain that threw silver sparks for almost a minute.

While she spoke to the seller, Azad Sahab stood close behind her. His hand rested again on her back, fingers spread. When she leaned forward to examine a packet, his hand slid a little lower, settling openly on the curve of her hip over the chiffon. She froze for half a second, then continued speaking to the seller as if the touch was normal. Her voice remained steady, but the back of her neck coloured.

I looked away and pretended to study a row of sparklers.

At the fourth stall Ma suddenly turned and called me closer. She took both my wrists and poured a fistful of small paper bombs into my open palms.

“These are the ones that make the loudest sound for their size. We will keep them for the end. When most people have finished, we will start these.”

Her fingers brushed my palms as she adjusted the bombs so they would not fall. The gesture was pure motherly affection, the kind she had not shown so openly in weeks. For a moment the rest of the market — Azad Sahab, the money, the lunch, the jewellery boxes waiting in the car — receded. She looked at me the way she used to when I was twelve and she had managed to buy an extra packet of something I wanted.

“We will burst them together tonight,” she said. “Just you and me in the lane. Like before.”

“Like before,” I repeated with a broad smile on my face.

Whatever was going on between them, seeing Ma so happy and childish, made me truly happy.

She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the stall. Azad Sahab watched the exchange without comment. When Ma moved to the next pile of packets his hand returned to her hip, higher this time, thumb moving once in a slow arc. She reached back almost absently and covered his hand with her own for a second before removing it. The correction was gentle, not rejecting.

A man at the neighbouring stall was speaking loudly to his friend. The words were not directed at us, but they hung in the dusty air. Ma’s shoulders stiffened slightly. Azad heard it too. He did not react beyond a small, private smile that lasted less than a second. Ma finished her selection at that stall faster than the previous ones and moved on.

By the time we had covered most of the market the boot of the car was going to be full. Azad paid at each place without once asking for a discount or checking the addition. The total must have been several thousand rupees.

As we walked back toward the car Ma fell into step beside me and linked her arm through mine. The physical closeness was sudden and deliberate.

“You are quiet again,” she said.

“Just watching.”

“Watch less. Carry more.” She laughed softly and shifted one of the larger bags into my other hand. “In the evening we will light everything. I want the long lari to hang from our window. And the big anaar we will put near the gate so everyone sees the colours.”

“You are very excited.”

“It is festival . Noise, smoke, your face when a rocket goes up properly. That is all.”

Azad Sahab walked on her other side. He did not attempt to separate her arm from mine. He simply existed there, paying for the bags we carried, owning the afternoon that made her laughter possible.

When we reached the car he opened the boot. Ma began arranging the packets carefully so nothing would break. While she bent over the boot, Azad Sahab stood close behind her and spoke near her ear, just loud enough for me to catch pieces.

“You look happy when you are buying things for him. I like watching that. Later I want to see the same face for a different reason.”

Ma kept arranging the packets. Her reply was low and almost lost under the sound of a distant bomb.

“Not here. Please.”

“I am only saying what I will do. You already know.”

She closed the boot with a firm push and turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes were darker than they had been a minute earlier. She looked at me and smiled again, the motherly smile that tried to push the other current away.

“Done. Now we go home.”

Azad Sahab unlocked the car and waited for her to sit in the front. As she moved past him his hand brushed the side of her waist, open and lingering. She entered the car without acknowledging the touch.

I sat in the back with the smell of gunpowder already clinging to my clothes and the shopping bags. Ma turned in her seat and looked at me once more.

“Tonight we will burst the crackers. Promise.”

“Promise,” I said.

She faced forward again. Azad Sahab started the engine. In the rear-view mirror his eyes met mine for a brief, unreadable second before he looked at the road.

The market disappeared behind us. The bags of crackers filled the boot. And in the front seat my mother sat with the residual warmth of having chosen toys for her son and the quieter, heavier knowledge of the words that had been spoken against her ear while she bent over those same toys.

[Anubantu]

Nice update

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 7

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

The car joined the main road again. The smell of gunpowder from the boot mixed with the cooler evening air coming through the slightly open window. She had turned the radio down until only a soft film song remained. For a few minutes no one spoke.

Azad Sahab broke the silence first, eyes on the road.

“You bought enough crackers for two buildings.”

Ma smiled without looking at him.

“It is once a year. Let him enjoy.”

“He is enjoying. He already got his main gift early.” Azad’s voice stayed casual, almost lazy. “The bike. Most boys wait until after celebration for something like that. He got it before the festival even started.”

I felt the words land squarely in the back seat. Ma’s shoulders shifted a little.

“That was different,” she said.

“Was it? Money went out. Something expensive came home. Same thing.” He glanced at her. “I don’t mind. I am only saying he is not short of gifts this year.”

Ma stayed quiet for a moment. Then she spoke, her tone carefully even.

“The bike was necessary. He travels every day. Crackers are for fun. Don’t mix the two Azad Sahab”

“I am not mixing. I am reminding.” Azad Sahab’s hand left the gear and rested on her knee over the chiffon for a second before returning to the wheel. “He has the bike. He has new clothes. He has a boot full of crackers. Happy celebration to him.”

I spoke from the back.

“I didn’t ask for the bike as a festival gift.”

Azad met my eyes briefly in the rear-view mirror.

“No one said you asked. Your mother decided. I paid. That is the full story. No need to make it complicated.”

Ma turned her face toward the window. The soft peach material of her saree moved with the turn. She did not defend me further, nor did she agree with him out loud. The silence that followed felt like agreement by omission.

The buildings of our area started appearing. The light had begun to soften into early evening. More crackers were already being burst in the side lanes. Ma’s phone buzzed once. She checked it, typed a short reply, and kept it face down on her lap.

As we came within two turns of the building, the conversation in the front seat dropped lower. Their heads tilted slightly toward each other. Words became harder to catch. I heard fragments.

“…not in the house tonight…”

“…he will be busy with the crackers…”

“…the place near the signal is fine…”

Ma’s reply was almost a whisper.

“One hour. Not more. I still have to light the diyas and burst crackers with him, I promised him that.”

Azad Sahab said something I could not hear. Whatever it was made Ma’s breath catch audibly. She looked straight ahead through the windscreen, lips pressed together, then gave a very small nod.

I leaned forward a little.

“What are you both talking about?”

Ma glanced back at me. Her expression had changed. The playful mother who had poured paper bombs into my hands at the market was still there, but something else sat in front of it now.

“Nothing important. Traffic talk.”

Azad Sahab did not bother with the same effort.

“We are deciding timings. Your mother has a small work after we drop you. She will come home in some time.”

Ma shot him a quick look, then turned to me again.

“I need to stop somewhere for a short while. You take the crackers upstairs and start arranging them. I will come by sevent to sevent thirty. We will still have enough time to burst everything before it gets too late.”

“Where do you need to stop?” I asked.

“Just some work. Don’t ask so many questions now. The bags are heavy. You will need both hands.”

The car turned into our lane. The building entrance came into view. A few children were already lighting sparklers near the gate. Two women from the ground floor stood talking; both looked up as the white sedan slowed.

Azad Sahab stopped a few metres short of the entrance, not directly under the light. He kept the engine running. Ma opened her door. The moment she stepped out, the evening air moved the light chiffon around her legs. She waited while I pulled the cracker bags from the boot. Azad Sahab remained in the driver’s seat, one wrist resting on the steering wheel, watching her.

Ma came around to my side and helped adjust the heavier bags so the weight distributed evenly.

“Go upstairs,” she said. “Keep the long lari separate. We will hang it first. And don’t start anything without me. I want to light the first one with you.”

“You are coming back soon?”

“Yes. Maximum one and a half hours. Maybe less.” She reached up and brushed some imaginary dust from my shoulder, a motherly gesture that felt suddenly thin. “Happy celebration again. Go.”

Azad Sahab spoke from inside the car, his voice carrying just enough.

“Don’t wait on the stairs, Sunny. Your mother will message when she is near.”

Ma gave him a short look that mixed warning and acceptance, then turned back to me.

“Go.”

I walked toward the entrance with the bags. Behind me I heard the passenger door close. When I reached the first step I looked back. Ma had already sat inside again. Azad Sahab said something that made her lean closer to him. His hand rose and settled on the bare skin of her upper arm, thumb moving once. Then the car pulled away from the lane and turned the corner, taking the soft peach chiffon and the open neckline and the residual smell of gunpowder with it.

I stood on the steps for a few seconds longer than necessary. The children near the gate stared at the number of bags I was carrying. One of the women from the ground floor looked from the disappearing car to me and then away.

I climbed the three floors slowly. The bags pulled at my fingers. Inside the flat the temple corner still held the faint memory of yesterday’s incense. The green-cloth box of dates remained on the table.

[saka1981]

Every time I read an episode, I feel a little disturbed when I think about the son’s situation. Here, lust seems to be winning over love. Author, your writing is so powerful that it conveys every emotion to the readers.

[Minki]

yaha aa kar mostly writer bhatak jaate ha but you are different no humiliation of any body faith warna ye story bhi band ho jaayegi its very thin line between romance and humiliation pl don't cross mat KARNA ab tak bahut acha jaa rahe ho
keep it up

[Minki]

Every time I read an episode, I feel a little disturbed when I think about the son’s situation. Here, lust seems to be winning over love. Author, your writing is so powerful that it conveys every emotion to the readers.

i am with you

[Farz@123]

Please update asap

[baddu]

Excellent writing skills. Superb. Last 5years i an not read this type story. Your writing skills is amazing.

[Aragon]

Again spicy updates... You know how to engage readers to the story.. You deserve a clap

[Leo Arya]

Where will they go?... What will happen near signal?... Keen to know !!!

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 8

24 November 2025 – Monday evening

The door of the flat closed behind me with a soft, final sound. I lowered the cracker bags onto the floor near the almirah and stood still for a long moment, listening to the silence. Outside, distant bombs already cracked the air. Inside, the 10-by-12 room held only the smell of gunpowder that had travelled up with the packets and the older, fainter scent of the attar that had never fully left the curtains since the night of Laxmi Pujan.

My phone showed 6:12. She had said one and a half hours at most. Maybe less. I locked the screen and put the phone face down on the mattress.

The first ten minutes passed in ordinary restlessness. I arranged the long lari carefully on the folding table so it would not tangle. I moved the heavier packets of rockets and anaars against the wall. I drank water. Then I sat again and the thoughts that had been waiting since the car pulled away began to arrive in order.

They were in a hotel room by now. Or a guest house. Or whatever place near the signal he had meant when he spoke in that low voice. She had left with him wearing the soft peach chiffon and the sleeveless blouse with the wide scoop neck. She had left with the black lace still under it. She had left after letting his hand rest on her hip in the cracker market and after accepting meat from his fork at lunch and after hearing him talk about the lace while I sat three feet away.

I closed my eyes and the morning returned without permission.

The bathroom gap. The nighty coming off. Her standing there in only the grey panties, breasts heavy and free, nipples dark against the wheatish skin. The way she bent to put on the black lace bra, the soft flesh dropping into the cups, the practised twist of her hands behind her back. The moment she called me in to close the necklace and my fingers touched the warm skin at the nape of her neck while the thin straps of the new blouse left her shoulders bare. The open dbanging of the expensive peach saree in the middle of our own room, the material sliding over her hips, the wide neckline showing the black lace every time she raised her arms.

I had held the nail-polish bottle for her. I had watched her paint her toes and fingers in the exact shade of the saree. I had seen the full sequence. And then I had watched her sit in the front seat of his car and accept his eyes and his comments and his hands.

The heat started low in my stomach and moved downward. I tried to ignore it. I stood up, walked to the window, and looked down at the lane. Children were lighting sparklers. A man from the next building was setting up a row of small bombs along the compound wall. Ordinary celebration sounds. Ordinary festival lights. None of it matched the knowledge of where my mother was at that exact moment.

I returned to the bed. The phone still showed no message. 6:41.

I lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling fan. The thoughts refused to stay clean. They mixed the morning images with the afternoon ones — the way his hand had settled on her waist under the pallu in the mall, the under-table movement I had only been able to read through the change in her breathing, the crude sentence he had spoken near her ear about wanting to see the lace again later. Later was now. She was with him now. The blouse was probably already open. The thin straps were probably already down her arms. The black lace was probably already off.

I felt myself harden fully against the fabric of the new jeans she had made me buy that morning. The guilt arrived at the same time as the arousal, but it did not stop the arousal. It only sat beside it and watched.

I tried to think of something else — the bike, the office, the crackers waiting to be burst. Nothing held. The picture of her in the bathroom returned, clearer than before. The weight of her breasts when she bent forward. The way the black lace had cut into the soft skin of her shoulders. The sound of her voice when she asked me to close the clasp. Then the picture shifted, without my permission, to the same body in a different room, under different hands. His hands. The hands that had paid for the earrings and the red box and the crackers and the bike. The hands that had fed her on a celebration afternoon.

My own hand moved before I fully decided to let it. I opened the button of the jeans, pushed the fabric down, and took my erected dick of around 5 inches in my fist. The first stroke pulled a rough breath out of my throat. I closed my eyes tighter and let the images run.

I thought of the wide scoop neckline dipping forward when she sat on the jewellery store stool. I thought of his knuckles almost touching her jaw while he held the earrings up to her face. I thought of the moment in the restaurant when his shoulder had moved in that small rhythmic way and her thighs had pressed together under the chiffon. I thought of the black lace the way he had spoken about it. I imagined him repeating those words while he removed it. I imagined her answering in the same low voice she had used on the late-night kitchen call, the voice that said she missed the way he held her.

The guilt spoke clearly inside my head. *This is your mother. You are thinking about your mother’s breasts and your mother’s bra and your mother’s body under another man while she is actually with him.* The guilt did not make me stop. It only made the strokes harder and less controlled.

I came with my face turned into the pillow. The release was sharp and emptied and immediately dirty. I lay still for several minutes afterward, breathing against the cotton, the new jeans still open, the evidence of what I had done cooling on my stomach and the sheet.

The guilt arrived properly once the heat left. It sat on my chest like a physical weight. I had used the memory of her bare body — the body that had carried me, fed me, worked double shifts for me — to bring myself to orgasm while she was in a hotel room with the man who paid for our rent reduction and my bike. The knowledge was simple and ugly.

I got up, cleaned myself with tissues from the bathroom, washed my hands twice, and changed into an old pair of shorts. I stripped the top sheet, folded it into a tight bundle, and pushed it to the bottom of the small laundry pile in the corner so it would not be the first thing she saw when she returned. Then I sat on the bare mattress and put my head in my hands.

Outside, a long lari of crackers went off somewhere in the next lane, the sound rising and falling like a wave. I looked at the packets we had bought together. The long lari she had wanted to hang from the window was still coiled on the folding table. She had said we would light the first one together. She had linked her arm through mine in the market and spoken about the old days. And then she had left with him for a private room while the crackers waited upstairs for a mother-son celebration that was already compromised.

My phone remained silent. 7:19. Then 7:37. Then 8:21.

It was already more than 2 hours, whereas she said she won't take more than one and half hours. I thought about calling. My thumb hovered over her name. I did not press it. The last time she had gone to him she had not picked up immediately either. She would call when she was ready. Or she would simply walk through the door with the same calm face she had worn after the previous absences and tell me to light the diyas.

I lay back on the mattress again, this time on my side, facing the wall. The images tried to return — the black lace, the open blouse, the possibility of what her mouth had looked like when she took the kebab from his fork, the possibility of what her mouth looked like now. I pushed them away with more success than before. The guilt helped. So did the growing coldness in the room once the fan had been switched off.

At 9:03 the phone finally lit up with a message.

*Starting back. 20 minutes.*

I stared at the two words and the time estimate. No explanation. No softening. Just the practical information that she was on her way home to the son who had just used the memory of her body to make himself come and then hidden the sheet.

I got up, switched on the fairy lights along the grill, and began arranging the crackers near the door so we could carry them down quickly when she decided it was time. My hands moved steadily. My mind did not. The flat still smelled faintly of the morning’s nail polish and her perfume. Underneath those smells, or perhaps only inside my head, the heavier knowledge of the hotel room remained.

She would walk through the door soon.

She would look at the arranged crackers and smile the motherly smile.

She would ask if I had eaten anything.

And I would have to stand in the same small room with her, knowing what I had done with the images of her bare breasts and black lace while she had been with him, and knowing that she would never be told.

The twenty minutes began to pass.

I sat on the chair facing the door and waited.

[Farz@123]

Long post bro

[Aragon]

Will he able to find the place near signal!?? Eagerly waiting to know...

[Naresh987]

Son is eagerly waiting for his mother ,who is getting drilled by his lover and sons future father...and son waiting to investigate the adventure of her mother