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

[Authorsunny]

Ma and Azad in the kitchen:

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[byteson]

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[V1star]

Sunny

[saka1981]

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.

I Understood bro ,

Writing in a way that everyone likes, making them eager to read the next part, and making the story feel close to reality—none of that is easy. You are doing all of these things really well.

My mind says that you can’t keep giving us updates continuously, but my heart just won’t listen. What can I do? ❤️

[Mprit]

Good going.

[Max Duncun]

Keep it up bro. the build up is perfect.
i feel like am burning slowly with the main charactors in their world.
some suggestions from me if you allow me.
a. There is an unexpected knock at the door at 1 am early in.the morning. its Azad there. Anjali has been avoiding his multiple request to get her intimate in her small room.Anjali ask her son to go.out of the house for 10 mins again. and you know by now ten mins means 2 hrs. he is out alone in.the pitch dark waiting on.the stairs. until a new charactor drop in.the story. its a middle age mature lady ..new tenant ...the son timidly starts a conversation on.the stairs ..
b. The lady has two daughters..they are twins. same age working in Govt sector.
c. she ior aazad are taking the son for granted now ...
on start drifting unconciously away from Anjali... ..while she is taking her son for granted now...pushes him away any.time any day .

i feel that the son suffering inwardly and he needs someone to douse the fire inside him.since his mother is now going thru a phase of uncontrollable passions ignited by Azad.

[V1star]

I wish Anjali catch her son like this.

[wxxxx]

I would like to request the author Authorsunny to connect the following scene to Chapter 24 (Continued) of the story My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read): Sunny bought Tiny, wireless pinhole cameras with cloud connectivity from Amazon a few days ago. Sunny's mother Anjali will be fast asleep when she returns from the landlord Azad's house at night. Sunny will install Tiny, wireless pinhole cameras with cloud connectivity sometime after midnight. One in the living room corner, disguised within a fake smoke detector. Another with a view of the main entrance. A third, with a trembling hand and a heart full of self-loathing, I'd placed high on the bookshelf in the bedroom, angled to cover the bed. The fourth in the kitchen.

[Aragon]

Just a thought.. When the Landlord decideds what will Anjali wear in occasion or something else, why he only decides sari Or kurti, why not he decides the colour of bra, panty that Anjali will wear.. I request the author to think about it.

[Ayush01111]

Now i wish son come in dark and fuck mother

[byteson]

Just a thought.. When the Landlord decideds what will Anjali wear in occasion or something else, why he only decides sari Or kurti, why not he decides the colour of bra, panty that Anjali will wear..  I request the author to think about it.

This is sth I was wondering too.

[Shriya George]

Just a thought.. When the Landlord decideds what will Anjali wear in occasion or something else, why he only decides sari Or kurti, why not he decides the colour of bra, panty that Anjali will wear..  I request the author to think about it.

Anyway being a moslim he will ask her  to wear burka what does it matter

[Lannister990]

Bro please give long update

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 24 (Continued)
30 November 2025 – Sunday Night (continued)

They left the slice of kitchen light and walked back toward the hall.

I stayed where I was.

The stone was still under my knee. The downpipe was still cold in my hand. A leaf was stuck to my wrist. I did not move at once. I needed a few seconds in which nothing new happened, so that the last thing I had seen could sit down inside me instead of running.

It did not sit down.

It only opened a door I had been walking around for days.

Since Thursday night I had told her I accepted the arrangement. I had said it on the edge of our bed, after Sunita’s words, after the tears, after I put the payal on her feet myself. I had thought acceptance would make the house quieter. I had thought it would make her less careful with me, or more open, or both.

It had done the opposite.

That was the thing I could not fit.

When I did not know the full truth — or when I knew only half and had not said yes — she had been sharper. She had put him on speaker. She had told him, in the same room as my laptop, that she was wearing nothing underneath. She had sent me out of the house so she could have sex with him in the house. On celebration night she had not even dressed it up as a short errand. She had left me with the lamps and the smell of sweets and the waiting, and she had come back late, with that look on her face that I now had a name for. In those weeks she had spoken to me as if I was a boy who needed to be taught how the world worked. She had corrected my face. She had told me to live with it. She had let the affair leak into the 10-by-12 room on purpose, as if hiding it would make her smaller, and showing it would make her honest.

Now I had accepted it.

And suddenly she was keeping her clothes on in front of me. She was cooking extra dry sabzi for my tiffin. She was polishing my office shoes. She was inviting him for dinner and calling it ordinary. In our room she had sat two feet away from him and called it dinner. When he put his hand on her waist she had worried about the bathroom door. In his kitchen just now she had said the one sentence I had not expected to hear from the woman who once sent me out on celebration :

*I will not do that to him. Accepting is one thing. Asking him to go to the kitchen is another.*

So what had changed?

I turned it over while the white kitchen light went empty and their footsteps moved toward Ammi.

One answer was simple and I did not like it.

When I had not accepted, she had needed to prove something. Not to me. To herself. If the thing she was doing felt wrong in her own chest, then the only way to keep doing it was to harden her mouth and call me young and push the truth into the room before I could ask for it. Shamelessness can be a cover. I had seen men at office do it with bad code. They talk louder so no one looks at the mistake. Maybe she had been doing that with me. Maybe every sharp sentence — *you are still so young, Sunny* — had been a way to drown the part of her that still stood in front of the small temple in the corner and knew the word for what this was.

Once I said yes, that fight inside her may have loosened.

If the son has accepted it, then it is not a secret crime happening behind his back. It is a known thing. Known things do not need to be performed at full volume. She could be a mother in the morning and his woman in the afternoon and not use my face as the place where she tested her own guilt.

That was one answer.

The other answer had Sunita’s voice in it.

*Kalank.*  
*The boy who looks the other way.*  
*The same bed.*  
*The smell that might remain.*

Those words had not been fully false. That was why they had cut. She had cried on our bed in a way I had not seen after Papa died. Not loud. Not for show. The kind of crying that comes when a person hears their own life spoken by a cruel mouth and cannot say the cruel mouth is entirely lying.

After that night she had been different with me. Not weaker. Softer. The extra parathas. The ironed shirt. The way she touched the back of my hand across the tea glasses. The way she told Azad Sahab on the phone that I had spoken like a grown man. The way she refused, tonight, to send me into the kitchen corner of my own house.

Maybe she had looked at herself through Sunita’s eyes for one long minute and not liked the woman who sent her son out on a festival night so she could lie down under another man.

Maybe she feared that if she kept treating me the old way — the strict way, the dismissive way, the way that made the affair sit on the bed between us — then the word kalank would stop being Sunita’s word and become a true one.

I did not know which answer was right.

Both could be true at once. People are not one thing. She could be relieved that I had accepted it, and ashamed that she had needed that acceptance, and still hungry for him, and still my mother who packed pickle in the tiffin bag. The kitchen kiss had not cancelled the polished shoes. The polished shoes had not cancelled the kitchen kiss.

What had changed was the room in which she allowed the two lives to touch.

In front of me, now, she wanted decorum.

In front of him, when I was not in the doorway, she still lifted her mouth and let him take it.

I understood that much.

I did not understand how I was supposed to live inside the gap.

The hall windows were still open. I had to move if I wanted the rest.

The ground sloped the wrong way. I went sideways again, lower, one shoulder in the bushes, the other almost against the plaster. A thin branch caught the inside of my arm and dragged. The scratch was sudden and mean. I felt the skin open in a short line, not deep, but enough to sting. I bit the sound down and kept going until I had an angle on the living room glass.

They were back with Ammi.

Ma was standing, not sitting. The dark green pallu was high on her chest again, the decent version, the version she had arranged before she first walked into that room. She was saying something I could not hear through the thick glass. Her hands moved in the small way they moved when she was winding a visit to a close. She pointed once at the steel box. She folded her palms toward Ammi, a namaste that was also goodbye. Ammi nodded slowly and kept the spoon in her hand.

Azad Sahab stood near the inner passage. His face had been reset. Not soft. Not the kitchen face. The public son face. He said something short. Ma smiled at Ammi, not at him.

She was preparing to leave.

That was all I needed.

If she came out of that heavy door and I was still in these bushes, there would be no sentence in any language that could save me.

I got out the way I had gone in — low, fast, one hand on the wall. My chappal slipped on the same wet soil. I did not fall. I came out onto the side strip, then onto the paved compound, then I forced my walk to look like a walk until I reached the stairwell.

Then I stopped pretending.

I took the stairs two at a time.

The weak light on the second floor went past in a blur. Sunita’s door was still shut. I did not look at it. My chest was loud. My mouth was dry. The keys were already in my fist from when I had locked our door. 

Third floor.

Corridor.

Key. Latch. Door.

I shut it behind me and leaned on it for one second only. One second was all I could give.

The night bulb was still on. The main tube light was off, the way I had left it. The loose-legged chair was still at his angle. The mutton smell was still in the kitchen corner. None of that mattered.

What mattered was my feet.

I looked down.

The chappals were not chappals anymore. They were mud. Dark wet mud from the rear strip, bits of leaf, a smear of something green from the bushes. The bottom of my pants had the same story — green streaks, a brown patch near the hem, a small tear I had not felt when it happened. My right forearm had the scratch, a thin red line with a bead of blood already drying. There was dirt on my wrist and a small cut near the knuckle.

If she walked in now, I would have to explain a walk I had not taken.

I moved.

Bathroom first. I took the chappals off and held them under the tap. Our tap does not have a real jet, but if you open it fully and put your thumb on the mouth it throws a hard stream. I did that. Mud ran off in dirty ribbons and went down the hole. I rubbed the straps with my other hand. I rubbed the soles. I kept going until the plastic looked like plastic again, only darker from water. I shook them and stood them against the wall behind the bucket, facing in, so the wet would not shout.

Then I washed my arms. Cold water on the scratch. Soap. The sting woke me more than the stairs had. I washed my face because there was sweat on it and because I needed my face to look like a face that had been inside this flat the whole time.

The pants could not stay out.

If I hung them, she would see. If I left them on the chair, she would see. If I put them with the other dirty clothes, she would see tomorrow morning when she made the pile.

I stripped them off. The green and the mud were worse in the tube-light that leaked under the bathroom door. I rolled them tight, found a thin polythene bag from the stack we keep under the basin for wet waste, pushed the pants in, and tied the mouth.

Above the bathroom there is a small storage slab. Old buckets. A broken heater we never threw. Two extra plastic stools. I shoved the bag to the back, behind the heater, where her hand would not go unless the slab was being emptied for celebration cleaning. That was months away. Or last month. Either way, not tonight.

I stepped down.

I pulled on the grey house pants I keep on the hook. An old T-shirt. Bare feet. I checked the floor for mud prints, found two near the door, wiped them with a wet cloth, threw the cloth in the bucket.

I looked at the wall clock.

I had done all of it in less than five minutes. My hands were still shaking, but the room looked like the room she had left.

I sat on the chair.

I waited.

The building made its ordinary night sounds. A scooter. A television two floors down. Someone’s pressure cooker, late, on some other stove. No payal on our stairs. No voices in the corridor.

Five minutes became seven.

Seven became ten.

She had said ten minutes when they left. That ten minutes had already died in his kitchen. This was a new ten minutes. I did not know what this one was for. Ammi’s goodbye. A last sentence at his door. His hand on the small of her back in the ground-floor corridor. Another kiss against some other wall I could not see.

The waiting changed shape.

The fear of being caught outside became something else. The house was mine again for a little while. The door was locked. She was not in it. The green saree was still downstairs. The body that had been against his pathani was still downstairs.

And the clothes she had taken off before that saree were still here.

I should not have stood up.

I stood up.

I went to the almirah first. The cream kameez she had worn in the afternoon was folded on the shelf, not the thing I wanted. The old nighty was on the bed-end. Not that either.

I turned to the kitchen corner.

She had changed there, behind the thin curtain, in front of me and also not in front of me. The curtain never hid what it was supposed to hide. I had seen the beige bra on other days. Today, before the green blouse went on, there had been a different one. Black. I had only caught the strap and the fact that it was not the old cotton one.

It was on the back of the plastic stool near the washing drum, under the folded maroon kameez she had taken off. She had been in a hurry to look ready for him. She had not put everything away.

I lifted the kameez.

The bra was underneath.

Black. Lacy. Not the cheap thick ones from the local market she used to buy when she still stood in the parlour. The cups were full and held their shape even empty. The lace was a small pattern along the top edge. The straps were thinner. One thing of hers that had changed with the rest of the clothes and the perfume and the hours.

I picked it up.

I did not pretend I was only looking.

The cloth was still slightly warm from the afternoon, or I imagined that. What was not imagined was the smell. Soap, yes. The branded lotion, yes. Under that, her. The smell that lives in the small of a woman’s chest after a whole day in a closed flat. Warm. A little sharp. A little sweet from the perfume she had put at the base of her throat before he rang the bell.

I sat on the edge of the bed with it.

The door was locked. I checked that thought twice. The latch was turned. The chain was on. She would have to ring.

I held the cup against my face.

The kitchen came back without being asked. Her back against the fridge wall. His hand on her raised wrist. The clean underarm in that white light. The way he had pulled her off the wall and into him. The way her mouth had opened. The small sound she had made into the kiss. The blouse pulling. His fingers following the cloth over the upper curve of her breast. Tomorrow afternoon. This room. This bed. Before I came home from office.

I was hard before I finished the list.

I took myself out of the grey pants.

I did not go slow. There was no slow left in the body. I wrapped the lace around my hand because I needed something of hers in the grip, and I worked myself the way I had on other nights when the house was empty and I had hated myself for it and done it anyway. The images did not stay in order. The kiss. The payal I had closed around her ankle. The way she had smiled in the kitchen to bring his anger down. The sentence *I have waited since celebration night.* The way she had said yes for tomorrow. The way her breasts had looked in that sleeveless blouse when she stood and turned for him in our own room.

My breath went noisy. I tried to keep it down and failed. The fan hid some of it. Not all.

I thought of him in this room tomorrow, in the afternoon light, the folding table pushed aside, her green saree or no saree, the same bed I was sitting on. I thought of the sounds this room would hold while I sat in the glass cabin and pretended to care about a module.

The heat gathered fast. My forehead was wet. The lace was damp from my palm. I was close to cumming.

And then suddenly, the doorbell rang.

[Tea_Kadai_Boy]

Chapter 24 (Continued)
30 November 2025 – Sunday Night (continued)

When I had not accepted, she had needed to prove something. Not to me. To herself. If the thing she was doing felt wrong in her own chest, then the only way to keep doing it was to harden her mouth and call me young and push the truth into the room before I could ask for it. Shamelessness can be a cover. I had seen men at office do it with bad code. They talk louder so no one looks at the mistake. Maybe she had been doing that with me. Maybe every sharp sentence — *you are still so young, Sunny* — had been a way to drown the part of her that still stood in front of the small temple in the corner and knew the word for what this was.
...........................
The waiting changed shape.
......................
I should not have stood up.

I stood up.
.............................
The heat gathered fast. My forehead was wet. The lace was damp from my palm. I was close to cumming.

And then suddenly, the doorbell rang.

The situation in Sunny was, turning on of his heat, just flowed like a river. Each sentence is worthy of the story, and cannot be taken as unnecessary. I have quoted few paragraphs to show how this part has taken the story forward.

Superb. The story has become addictive. Certainly increases dopamine.

[V1star]

Nice update,I think he won't get sleep tonight.....
I want detective Anjali to find out Sunny's actions and talk to him openly.
She dont want to send sunny into kitchen corner,may be she wants to do it  infront of him.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 24 (Continued)
30 November 2025 – Sunday Night

I jerked as if someone had put a wire through me.

The bra was still in my hand.

I was still out.

Sweat sat on my forehead in a line I could feel.

I shoved myself back into the pants. The tent did not go. There was no time for it to go. I dropped the bra. It fell on the kitchen stool, half on the maroon kameez, one strap hanging. I did not have a second drop. I pulled the kameez over it the way a person hides a plate. It was a bad hide. It was what I had.

I wiped my face on my shoulder, walked to the door, opened the chain, turned the latch.

She was there.

Dark green saree. Pallu a little less neat than when she had left. Hair open, a few strands stuck near her temple. The silver bracelet. The payal, quiet now because she was standing still. The steel box was not in her hands. She had left it downstairs.

She looked at me.

The look lasted a second longer than a normal hello.

“What happened to you?” she said. “You look as if you have seen a ghost. Everything all right?”

My voice came out wrong.

“I… I was almost asleep. The bell… I got up too fast. Head spun a little.”

She kept looking.

I stepped back to let her in so that I would not have to hold her eyes. She came in, closed the door with her heel, and bent to open the latch-chain again the way she always did, out of habit. When she straightened her eyes went down for half a second and then away.

I knew what she had seen.

The grey pants did not hide much when the body had not finished what it had started.

She shook her head once, very small, the way she used to shake it when she found my college notebooks open on a Sunday and a film playing on the laptop.

She thought I might be watching porn, even though she did not say it out loud. I saw the thought land and leave. *He is twenty-one. This age is like that.*

She did not know the bra was under the kameez three steps from her hand.

“Drink water,” she said, not to me, to herself, and went straight to the kitchen corner.

I stayed near the bed.

She took a steel glass, filled it, and drank it without stopping. Then she filled it again and drank that too, two glasses back to back, the way a person drinks when their mouth has been busy with something that is not water. She kept the glass down, put both hands on the edge of the basin, and stood like that for a breath.

Then she started taking the saree off.

She did not go into the bathroom.

She stood in the kitchen, where she had stood to put the saree on, and began to undo the work.

The thin curtain was half drawn, the same useless curtain as always. From the bed I could see her in pieces, and then in more than pieces, because she was not trying to hide from a son who had already accepted the rest.

First the pallu came off the shoulder. She pulled the pins, two of them, and dropped them in the small plastic bowl near the stove. The green cloth slid down her back. The sleeveless blouse was suddenly the only thing on her upper body, tight across the chest, the skin of her arms bare, a faint mark on the left side of her throat that had not been there when we ate the kheer. Not a full bloom like the old one. A softness. A place a mouth had been.

She opened the pleats.

The green opened in her hands like water. She folded as she went, not perfectly, faster than her usual folding, as if the cloth had done its job and she wanted it off her skin. The petticoat sat underneath, white, tied at the waist. When the last of the saree left her hips the full round shape of her ass was there against the thin white cloth. The petticoat had stuck a little at the back from sitting, from the car, from the wall. She tugged it once.

She reached behind for the blouse hooks.

There were three. She opened them one by one. The blouse loosened. She pulled it forward and down her arms.

For a second she was only the beige-cream of her skin and the black bra.

Not the one on the stool.

I went still.

This one was the one she had worn for him. Also black. Also lacy. She had changed bras when she changed into the saree and I had not seen that part because the curtain had fallen the wrong way. The one I had held was the afternoon one. This was the evening one. The cups were even fuller now, lifted by the way she had been held, the lace sitting on the heavy soft flesh, the upper curve rising with each breath. A thin line of sweat ran down the line between them and disappeared into the cloth.

The kitchen still held his perfume. It now also held her sweat. Not the morning kitchen sweat from the kadhai. This was different. Warmer. The smell of a body that had been against another body in a closed room.

She unhooked the bra with one hand.

The sound was small.

The straps slid. The cups came away. Her breasts spilled forward, heavy, the same breasts I had grown up next to and not seen like this until the months when clothes started changing. They settled against her ribs, the dark of the nipples visible for the time it took her to drop the bra on the same stool. It landed near the other one. I could not see if the kameez still covered the first.

She untied the petticoat.

It went down her legs.

For two or three seconds she stood in the kitchen corner in only the payal and the silver bracelet and the gold chain. Forty-seven. Waist still there. Hips full. Thighs soft. The dark triangle she did not hide because she did not know I was using the curtain the way I was using it. A shine of sweat at the back of her neck. A shine at the inner elbows. The faint kitchen light made all of it look closer than it was.

She pulled the old peach nighty off the hook and dropped it over her head.

The cloth fell. The body went back to being a shape under thin cotton. She lifted her hair out of the neckline with both hands. The nighty sat low. She did not put the bra back on.

I had my hand on myself again over the grey pants. I had not decided to. The hand had gone there when the blouse hooks opened. I rubbed once, twice, the way a person rubs a burn. I was close again, stupidly close.

She picked up the folded saree, came out from behind the curtain, and the moment ended.

I took my hand away. I sat forward so the table would hide the rest. My throat felt thick.

She put the saree on the chair, on top of his absence, and finally looked at me properly.

“Arey, you are not sleepy again?” she said.

“I am trying Ma.”

“I know. Ten minutes became more. Ammi talks slowly. I couldn’t just keep the box and run. It would have looked wrong.”

She said it evenly. The kitchen version of her was gone. This was the mother who had come home.

“It’s all right Ma,” I said.

She came and sat on her side of the bed. The mattress dipped. The payal made one soft sound and then she folded her feet under her so they would stop. The nighty pulled across her chest. She was still breathing a little fast from the stairs, or from the two glasses of water, or from what the water had been for.

“Sunny, you behaved well tonight,” she said. “At the table. With him. I know it is not easy to sit like that in this room. Thank you.”

The thanks landed in the same place the bra smell was still sitting.

“I said I would.”

“I know what you said. Doing it is different.” She reached out and touched my arm, the same place the branch had cut. Her fingers paused.

“What is this?”

The scratch. I had washed it. I had not covered it.

“Hit the almirah earlier,” I said. “When I got up for water. It’s nothing.”

She looked at it a moment longer, then let it go. She believed me because she wanted the night to be finished, not because the story was good.

She picked up her phone from the mattress. The screen lit her face from below. She typed with one thumb. A short message. She waited. A reply came almost at once. She read it, typed one line more, and put the phone face down under the pillow.

I did not ask.

I knew who it was.

I knew what tomorrow afternoon was.

She lay down on her side, facing the wall, then turned her head a little.

“Good night beta. Sleep now.”

The room went to the dark we both knew. The fan. The far traffic. Her breathing trying to find its night shape. The payal silent under the sheet. The two black bras in the kitchen I would have to deal with in my head until morning.

I lay on my back.

The clock on the wall had a faint tick I only heard when everything else stopped. I waited until my eyes adjusted. The grill held a little orange from the lane.

It was past eleven-thirty.

My body had not finished anything. Not in the bushes. Not with the lace. Not when the bell cut the first one. Not when the blouse came off. I was still charged, stupidly, painfully, the way a person is charged when the mind has seen too much and the hand has not been allowed to close the account. She was three feet away. The same mattress. The same sheet. If I moved the way I needed to move, the bed would say it. She would know this time that it was not a random film on a laptop.

I put my arm over my eyes.

I thought of code. I thought of Mr. Sinha’s hand going up in the glass cabin. I thought of the module waiting on Monday. Monday was already tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon he would climb these same three floors and she would open this same door and I would be somewhere inside the glass doors.

The thought did not help.

I turned on my side, facing away from her.

Her breathing had gone even. Not fully deep yet. On the way.

I stayed behind.

The scratch on my arm pulsed with my pulse. The hidden bag above the bathroom sat in the dark like a second mistake. The bra smell was still in my fingers.

My eyes burned.

I did not jerk off.

I lay there until the burn became weight, and the weight became a thin sleep, and the thin sleep finally took the rest of the night with it.

She was already gone into her own.

The small room held both of us, the green saree on the chair, the unsent heat, and the afternoon that had already been promised.

[Leo Arya]

Nice build up... Great going bro...
What will happen tomorrow's afternoon??.. want to know that

[V1star]

Finally Sunday night is over.
I thought he would jerk off during his mom's sleep,but he did it even before she arrived.
Just after witnessing their romance he became desparate,what would he do tomorrow afternoon, stay in office, no he won't.
For Anjali there is no neer to tell him,even if he come in afternoon to peep into home ,it is 3rd floor,day light hrs,
Moreover they planned to do it in the only available bed.he daily sleeps
Waiting for tomorrow afternoon episode  .

[V1star]

Even if he come home and knock the door to enter home,his mom won't let him in,and say go for a walk and come in evening.
Poor sunny.