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

[byteson]

Hi, Sunny! Loving the story so far. It has gripped my attention in the last few days, and I keep waiting for an update just to peek a moment into Sunny and Anjali's lives and imagine in my own head where would things go from here. Next update is usually better than what I imagine, so no complaints as well. Appreciate your time and effort that you spend here.
As my curiosity sends me places with your details as the carrier, I could not help but ask one question to calm my nerves-- could you please give us let me know if this story would eventually enter into a full "motherly cuckold" zone? Or will it remain this way?

[wxxxx]

Author's note:

Dear readers,

As I mentioned earlier, this is not a sex story. It was never written to drop humiliation, cuckson, or similar elements out of nowhere without proper buildup.

I know most stories here move quickly from tension to explicit scenes. That is not a criticism of fellow authors. Those stories have their own audience, and that audience enjoys them.

This story, as the title suggests, is closer to a daily soap opera. Some chapters exist only to build character, relationships, and situation. That slower pace is necessary if the story is going to hold together.

I am committed to this story and I try to give readers something new. That does not mean I will insert scenes that do not belong just because they are requested.

Many of you have asked in DMs and on Telegram for humiliation, cuckson, and similar elements. Without spoiling where the story is headed, I can say this: the story will not suddenly change direction.

There will be proper buildup, emotional drama, and a course that stays true to the characters and the plot.

Thank you for reading and for staying with it.

xossipy readers always look forward to exciting sexual scenes. Ordinary stories will never be popular with xossipy's audience. I believe the author, Authorsunny, should take this into consideration.

[V1star]

In long run this story will attain it's deserved position. And will be remembered as the story with unique treatment.
 a story with emotions, details, descriptions, feelings. we don't get to see all of them in a sex story. 
for now i feel...a little flirting, double meaning line are missing. except that story is going in super flow.
 Azad flirting Anjali infront of sunny.
Sunny's double meaning with Anjali...(For that sunny has to open his mouth.) all he says is all right, it's ok,good.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 27 – Wednesday 
3 December 2025 – Wednesday

The first sound was water.

Not the cooker. Not the kadhai. Not her payal on the floor near the stove.

Water against the bathroom tile. A steady fall. Then the shorter sound of a mug being filled and poured. Then the fall again.

The grill was holding that same first grey light. The tube light was off. The night bulb near the bathroom was off too. For a second the room tried to look like June. Same bed. Same fan on a slow speed. Same thin curtain. Then Tuesday night sat down on my chest before my eyes were even fully open. The crumpled saree. The navel going up and down. My hand. The guilt. The way I had turned to the wall.

She was not on the bed.

The sheet on her side was pushed back. The pillow still held the shape of her head. The cotton saree from last night was not on the chair. It was not on the hook. It was not on the floor. The maroon sleeveless blouse was not there either.

The bathroom door was pushed in.

Not latched. The latch never caught properly. But today the wood was sitting closer to the frame than it usually sat. The gap that had shown me too many things already was only a dark line. No peach cloth. No grey satin. No shoulder. Only the sound of water and the faint warmth that comes out of that small room when someone has been under it for a while.

I stayed still.

The semi-transparent curtain that cut the kitchen corner from the rest of the flat was pulled across. In the evening that curtain hid almost nothing and also hid everything, depending on the tube light. In this morning grill-light it had gone thin. Almost see-through. I could make out the steel rack, the outline of the fridge, the darker shape of the stove. No body in that slice yet.

I sat up half an inch.

The mattress made the old small sound. I froze. The water did not stop. She had not heard, or she had heard and did not care. I put my feet down slower than I needed to and stood.

The bathroom door was right there. Four steps. I had walked those four steps every morning of my life in this house. Today the four steps felt like a corridor.

I put my eye to the gap.

Nothing.

The wood was too close. The angle was wrong. I could see a strip of wet tile and the lower edge of the old bucket and a fall of water that broke before it reached the floor. That was all. A person could not see inside. Not a shoulder. Not a back. Not the turn of a waist. The door had been pushed properly, the way a person pushes it when they want the steam to stay in and the morning to stay out.

I stepped back.

My mouth was dry. My body was already ahead of the morning. The grey house pants were thin. I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palm down once, the same stupid press as last night, as if a hand could tell a body to wait.

The tap stopped.

For two or three seconds there was only the drip. Then the softer sound of a towel being pulled off the hook. Cloth against skin. A short rub. Another. The wet slap of hair being wrung once, hard. She had washed her hair. I knew that sound from years of Sundays. The headwash sound was different from the ordinary bath sound. Longer. Heavier. The whole flat used to smell of cheap shampoo after. These days the smell was the other one. The branded bottle from the shelf.

The door opened.

I dropped back onto the pillow and turned my face toward the wall, then thought better of it and left it half toward the room, eyes almost shut. A person who has just woken does not lie in a perfect line. I let my mouth open a little. I made my breath heavier.

She came out.

The towel was white. Not the thin old one with the faded blue border. A thicker one. It was wrapped around her chest and tucked in at the top. The tuck was doing all the work. The cloth ended high on her thighs. Not mid-thigh. Higher. Upper thighs. The rest of her legs were bare and still holding water. Small drops on the skin. The drops moved when she walked.

I have seen her like this before.

Not every day. Most days she finished inside and came out already in a nighty, or in a petticoat and blouse, or in that old cloth with the straps that never sat straight. But some mornings, especially after a headwash, she used to step out in only a towel, walk to the almirah, take what she needed, and go back. I used to turn to the other side. That was the rule I had made for myself when I was sixteen and the flat was already too small. A good son does not watch his mother walk from the bathroom to the wardrobe in a towel. A good son looks at the wall and waits for the rustle of cloth to finish.

Today the good son did not look at the wall.

I looked through the almost-closed line of my lashes.

She was tall in that light. Not cinema tall. Our house tall. The towel made a tight shelf across her chest. The line of her breasts sat heavy against the wrap. The tuck had pulled the cloth in at the centre, and the deep line there was clear. Cleavage. The word felt dirty in a morning room and it still arrived. The gold chain was on. It lay in the wet hollow of her throat and threw a small dull light when she turned her head. The payal made the soft morning sound. Not the hurried sound from Monday evening. The ordinary one. Silver on clean skin.

There was a second towel on her head, twisted and packed. Dark hair hidden. A few wet strands at the nape. Her shoulders were bare. Smooth. Still holding the bath heat.

She walked past the thin curtain toward the almirah.

The walk was not the careful walk of Monday night. It was not the balm walk of Tuesday. It was the walk of a woman who has decided the day has started and the body will do what the day needs. Her thighs touched and separated. Water ran down one calf and stopped at the payal. The towel climbed half an inch when she reached up to open the almirah door, then settled again.

I was hard.

Fully. Immediately. The kind that makes the pants stand and does not ask if the person walking is your mother. I kept my eyes almost shut and felt the heat go into my stomach and then lower, the same heat from the dream, the same heat from the office desk, the same heat from last night when her navel had moved under the loosened saree. I made a small snore sound. It came out wrong. Too planned. I let the next breath be messier.

She took clothes from the shelf. I heard hangers. I heard the soft fold of a saree being pulled out. Then the smaller sounds — the plastic lid of the powder tin, the lotion bottle knocking the wood, the perfume bottle against the tin. She held the pile against the towel with one arm and closed the almirah with her hip.

She walked back.

Toward the kitchen.

Toward the curtain.

She stopped.

Near the bed.

I felt it before I understood it. The payal had gone quiet. Soap. Wet hair. She was standing close enough that if I opened my eyes properly I would see the towel and the wet legs and the gold chain from below.

Was she looking at me.

I did not open my eyes.

I pushed a thicker breath out through my nose and let my mouth stay slack. The snore was ugly. I kept it there. A sleeping son. A son who has not seen anything. A son who will get up when his name is called and ask about tea.

She stood for another second. Maybe two. The mattress did not dip. She did not sit. She only stood. Then the payal started again, two short notes, and she moved.

The curtain rings slid.

She went into the kitchen.

The curtain fell back across the opening, not fully closed, the way it never fully closed. The grill light made it thin.

I waited.

I counted the fan blades. I counted my own pulse in my neck. When I was sure the payal was on the kitchen side, I moved.

Slow.

One inch. Then another. I turned on the bed the way a person turns in sleep, except every muscle was awake. I brought my head to the angle I needed. From this pillow, through that cheap curtain, the kitchen corner opened like a badly cut window.

I saw her bare back first.

The body towel was not on her.

It was on the counter, folded once, sitting next to the lotion and the perfume and the small yellow tin of scented talcum. The head towel was still packed on her hair. The rest of her was bare.

Fully.

The grill light came through the kitchen window and sat on her skin. Not harsh. The kind of light that makes a back look warm. I have lived in this house for twenty-one years. I have seen her in nighties and in petticoats and in sarees and recently, by accident glimpses of her in bathroom, or while changing clothes. But, not like this. Not standing in our kitchen with both feet planted and nothing on her body except a towel on her head, a gold chain, a silver bracelet, and the payal.

Her ass was the first thing the curtain gave me.

Huge. Round. Tight in the way a body is tight when it has weight and still holds its shape. The cheeks were full. The line between them was dark and clean. Water had dried. The skin looked smooth, almost shining where the lotion from last night had not fully gone, or where the bath had left her that way. Her waist dipped in before the hips took over. That dip. The same dip the new blouses had been advertising for months. From the back it was worse. From the back it was the whole figure at once. Hourglass. The word felt stupid and it was still the only word. Narrow enough in the middle that the flare below looked heavier. The kind of ass the jeans had held in July and the sarees had held in October and the old peach nighty had never really hidden.

She had one arm raised.

The other hand was working something into her underarm. Powder, or lotion, I could not tell from the first second. The raised arm lifted the side of her breast into the space under it. I could not see the full chest from this angle. I could see the heavy side. The undercurve. The dark edge of the nipple when she shifted. Then it was gone again, hidden by her own arm.

She was humming.

An old song. One of those filmi ones she used to hum while rolling dough, years ago, when the parlour shift was still in her feet. The tune sat in the small kitchen as if this was only morning. As if there was no son on the bed. As if there was no purple saree in yesterday’s memory and no dustbin and no man on the ground floor. Only a woman drying her underarms after a headwash.

She used to do this earlier also.

That sentence arrived with a kind of shame that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

Most weekdays she bathed after I left. College. Then office. The house was hers for an hour. On weekends and on holidays she did it while I was still inside. Sometimes in the bathroom with the door pushed. Sometimes in this same kitchen, because the bathroom has no space to lift both arms and put lotion on a back. I knew the sounds. Bottle. Tin. The soft rub. If I guessed what she was doing I turned to the wall. I made myself smaller on my side of the bed so she would not feel watched and I would not have to know the shape of my own looking.

That was the good son.

This morning the same good son was lying on his side with his eyes open behind a cheap curtain, watching his mother stand naked in the kitchen, and his dick was so hard it hurt against the grey cotton.

She picked up her phone.

The charging wire was still in it. She lifted the whole thing, wire hanging, and looked at the black glass. She chuckled once. A small sound. Private. Then she whispered something at the battery, the same complaint she has been making for two days, the same “this phone is of no use” sitting under her breath. She put it back on the counter with a little more force than needed. The wire pulled. She left it.

She took the premium lotion.

The branded bottle. Not the local milky one from July. The one that had arrived with the bracelet and the other small things. She poured a handful into her palm. The smell reached me even through the curtain. Richer. Sweeter at the edge. She started on her arms.

Slow.

She was not performing. There was no one in the kitchen to perform for, as far as she knew. She worked the lotion into her right arm first, wrist to shoulder, then the underarm again, then the left. The raised arm made the same opening. Side breast. Heavy. The dark nipple showed for a longer second this time, and I felt my throat close. She went over her stomach. From the back I saw only the movement of her elbow and the way her waist turned. Then she reached behind herself, both hands, and spread the lotion over her back. The head towel stayed packed. It would stay another hour. I knew that too. She never opened a headwash towel until the hair had given up some of its water.

Her hands went lower.

Over the cheeks of her ass.

She did not rush that part. She took more lotion. She worked it in with her palms, up and down, the full round weight of each side, then the place where the ass met the thigh. When she bent a little to reach the back of her knees the whole seat lifted and changed shape and came back. The payal sounded once. She hummed through it.

Every time she moved I got the side of her breasts.

Left. Then right. Then left again. Dark nipples. Bigger in this light than the picture I have been carrying. I do not know if that is true. I do not know if a body looks larger when you have decided you are not supposed to see it. In the hotel videos her breasts had filled his hands and spilled. In the Monday nighty they had moved freely. This morning they looked like they belonged to the same woman and also to a woman I had never been allowed to look at. Full. Heavy. The kind that make a towel work hard and a blouse work harder.

She took more lotion.

From my angle I could tell where her hands had gone even when her back was to me. The way her shoulders rounded. The way she looked down at herself. She was going thoroughly over her breasts. Both hands. I heard the small wet sound of lotion on skin. I saw her elbow move in a circle. I imagined the rest because the angle and position would not give me the front, and the imagining was worse than a clear picture. I saw his mouth on that same skin on Monday. I saw the dark red mark she had bent across the folding table to hide. I did not know if the mark was still there. The lotion would go over it if it was.

She turned sideways.

Toward the pile of clothes on the covered plate rack, or on the small stool, I could not see the stool fully. The turn lasted two seconds. In those two seconds I got the heavy side of her breast again, the full undercurve, the nipple in profile, the soft shelf of her stomach, and the dark triangle at the joining of her thighs before her hip closed the view. 

Then she was out of my view of curtain.

A few seconds.

I did not breathe right.

When she came back into the frame she was already in a panty.

Dark. Not the cotton ones she used to wash and hang on the balcony line. A darker pair. Fitted. The cloth sat into the round of her ass and made the shape cleaner. She was hooking a bra.

Dark blue. Lacy. The evening kind, except it was morning. The band went around her back. Her hands were up behind her. The cups were still open in front. For one raw second, before the hooks caught, I saw the breasts from the side as they sat in the half-on cups — pushed, heavy, the dark nipples still visible above the lace edge. Then the last hook closed. She pulled the straps up. She shook her shoulders once, the way she does when a blouse has to settle. The cups took the weight. The shape became held. Lifted. The lace sat against skin that still had lotion on it.

She looked back. Toward the bed. Sudden.

Not a slow glance. A turn of the head, quick, as if a sound had come from my side or as if some thought had pulled her face around.

I shut my eyes.

Hard.

My heart went into my ears. I kept the slack mouth. I kept the ugly breath. I did not swallow. Swallowing makes a sound in a room this small. I counted several fan rotations with my eyes burning behind the lids.

When I opened them she was not looking anymore.

She was making the pleats of a saree.

The blouse was already on.

Sleeveless. Light green. The house style she has been wearing for months. Soft cloth. Close on her. The neck sat the way her newer necks sit — not a party neck, not the old high hotel-reception neck, just low enough that the upper curve is part of the morning. 

I tried to remember the last sleeved blouse I had seen on her on an ordinary day. Almost a month. Except celebration night. The rest have been these. Arms out. Shoulders out. The clean underarm when she lifts a glass.

The saree cloth was soft. New. Not the cream. Not the maroon. Not the purple from Monday that had been crushed on the chair. A different cloth. It sat close when she tucked the first pleats at her waist. It hugged the held chest. It took the flare of her hips without a fight. She did the pleats the old way, counting with her fingers, tapping the stack on the counter once to even them, then feeding them into the petticoat knot I could not see. The pallu she threw over her left shoulder and pinned once, quick. The pin clicked.

She then walked back into the living side.

I shut my eyes again, not fully, only enough. She put the bottles away on the almirah shelf. Powder tin. Lotion. Perfume. The small order of a woman who still runs a house. Then she stood at the dressing mirror.

The mirror is behind my back if I lie facing the kitchen. I could not see her face. I heard the pack open. Kajal. The compact. The small clicks. A pause. Another click. She was doing the usual things. Touching up. Looking at herself the way she has started looking at herself since July — not the tired parlour look, the other look. Adjusting the pallu. Adjusting the fall at the hip.

Then she was in the kitchen again.

Chopping.

Onions first. The smell is instant in this flat. It goes into the curtain and into the sheet and into the morning. The knife on the board was steady. Not the shaky knife of a person who has not slept. She had slept last night. Deep. I had heard it. This morning her body looked like it had taken the bath as medicine. She checked the round roti box. I heard the lid. She counted what was left with a finger, the way she always counts. She did not take out the rolling board. She did not put the tawa on. Whatever was in the box would be my tiffin. She was not rolling fresh ones.

The head towel was still on.

The saree moved when she reached for salt. The light green blouse pulled across her back. The sleeveless cut left her arms clean. I watched the blade go through the onion and I watched the shape of her under the new cloth and I felt sick with how simple it all looked.

“Sunny. Sunny beta, get up.”

[V1star]

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 27 (Continued)
3 December, 2025

“Sunny. Sunny beta, get up.”

My name.

The ordinary voice. The tea voice. The college voice. The voice that has pulled me out of this bed for years.

I made the yawn first.

Too big. I cut it and made a smaller one. I rubbed my face with both hands and sat up as if the room had only now become a room. She was at the kitchen edge, one hand on the curtain, looking at me the way she looks when the clock has already started and the son is still in yesterday.

“Good Morning,” I said. My voice came out thick. I let it. Sleep can take the blame for that.

“Good Morning beta. Get up. Tea is almost ready.”

I looked at her properly, the way a son is allowed to look. Saree. Light green blouse. Pallu pinned. Head towel still packed, a few wet curls at the temple where the towel had loosened. Kajal already done. The gold chain. The silver bracelet. The payal. She looked like a woman who had decided to be ready before the lane woke.

“You bathed so early today?” I said. I put surprise in it. Real surprise was not hard. She usually did the headwash later, after I left, or on Sunday when the whole morning belonged to her.

“Yes.” She went back to the board. The knife started again. “Got up early only. Eyes opened and sleep did not come back. Thought, finish the bath first.”

I put my feet down. The floor was cool. I kept sitting so the pants would not speak.

“Back is fine now?”

She made a small sound, not quite a laugh. “That is why I bathed. Hot water. Now it is feeling good. Energetic only. I am fine now.”

Energetic.

The word sat on the onion smell.

“Okay,” I said.

“Go, brush. Tea will get cold.”

I stood.

I turned a little toward the almirah first, enough to hide the front of the pants, and took the towel from the chair. I held it in front of me like a person who is only carrying a towel into the bathroom. She did not look up from the board. The knife kept time.

The bathroom was still warm.

Steam on the upper tile. The bucket was half full. The maroon blouse was in the bucket, pushed down with yesterday’s cotton, already dark with water. She must have dropped them in before the tap started. The smell in here was soap and her shampoo and a little of the balm that heat had lifted off her skin and left on the air.

I closed the door as far as the weak latch allowed.

I opened the tap so the water would cover sound. I brushed first because if I did not brush I would taste last night’s sleep through whatever came next. Paste. The cheap mint. I spat. I rinsed. I looked at my face in the small mirror. It looked like a person who had been awake for an hour and was pretending it was five minutes.

I could not hold it.

Yesterday’s navel moving when she breathed. The clean underarms on the bed, both arms up, the sleeveless cut leaving them open to the tube light. This morning’s bare back. The lotion on her ass. The side of her breast. The dark nipple. The panty. The dark blue lace hooking. 

I put my back to the wall where I could still see the gap.

If the gap went dark, if her feet came, the payal would warn me. That was the thought. The same thought as Monday morning.

I pulled the grey pants down.

My dick came out already wet at the head. Hard enough that the first touch of air made my stomach jump. I looked at it because I always look at it now. I cannot help it.

It is not small in a joke way. It is a normal young man’s dick. It fills a fist. It stands. It has been enough for my own hand for years.

But it is significantly smaller than what I saw in that hotel video.

That sentence has been living in me since the night I unlocked her phone and did not stop the file in time. White sheets. Her hair fallen forward. Her mouth on him. The way her fingers could not close all the way around the base. The thick vein. The broad head. The sound she made when she tried to take more and had to come off and go down again. I had watched it twice and then locked the phone and sat on the closed lid of this same toilet and hated my own body for getting hard at my mother’s mouth on another man’s dick.

Ever since that day the comparison sits ready.

In the bathroom at dawn. At the office desk. On the bike. In this fist.

His was a man’s. Heavy. Darker. The kind that makes a woman’s wrist look smaller. Mine looks like what it is — twenty-one, used only by me, never inside anyone.

I spat in my palm and I started stroking.

Harder than Monday.

I did not try to be kind to it. I wanted it over. I wanted the heat out of my stomach before I had to sit across the folding table and drink tea she had made with the same hands that had just gone over her own breasts. I kept my eyes on the gap. The curtain of the kitchen was a paler strip beyond the wood. I could hear the knife. I could hear her humming stop and start.

The pictures would not come in order.

The towel ending at her upper thighs. The tuck working too hard. The drop of water running to the payal. The curtain and her naked back. That ass. The raised arm. The dark nipple in the side light. Her palm spreading lotion over the cheek of her own seat as if it were only skin. The hotel. Her lips stretched. The wet sound. The way she had looked up once, toward him or toward the phone I still do not know. Monday’s shut windows. The two tied condoms in our bin, heavy, more cum in each than I make in a full finish. His seed in rubber in our house. My hand on my smaller dick while her yesterday clothes sat in the bucket two feet away.

I did not pick anything up.

I did not put my face near the bucket. I did not touch the maroon blouse. The thought came and I pushed it down with the same fist I was using. That line was still there. Watching was already a theft. Taking her cloth into this would be something I would not come back from in the same morning.

I stroked faster.

My other hand went to the wall. The tile was wet. My mouth opened and I shut it. A sound stayed in my throat. I thought of her standing at the mirror with kajal while I did this ten feet away. I thought of the word energetic. I thought of her looking back at the bed. Had she seen. Had the snore been enough. Had she stood there knowing.

I came hard.

It jumped in my fist and kept going, more than I wanted, spilling over my fingers and onto the wet tile near the bucket. For two or three seconds there was only the body’s stupid relief. My knees went loose. I bit the inside of my cheek and waited for the last pulse to finish.

The comparison did not leave.

Even in the finish it was there. A few pulses. A young man’s amount. Not the weight I had lifted out of the dustbin. Not the amount that had made the rubber hang.

I washed.

I washed again. I used soap on my hand three times. I opened the tap fuller and pushed the white off the tile with my foot until the floor looked only like bath water. I took off the grey pants fully, took off the inner, and stood under the mug. Cold first. Then a little from the bucket she had left. I put toothpaste in my mouth a second time even though I had already brushed. I did not want any taste that belonged to the last five minutes.

The guilt came.

It came. I will not say it did not.

It did not sit down the way it did on Monday.

Monday morning I had walked out of this bathroom feeling like I had dirtied the shirt she had ironed. Today the guilt stood, looked at me, and did not pull a chair. Maybe because I had already done it once and the second time is lighter. Maybe because she had stood naked in our kitchen and hummed. Maybe because the body does not care about the word Ma when it has been shown a thing and told to sleep through it. I wrapped the towel at my waist. I picked up the grey pants and the inner and I did not look at the bucket again.

I opened the door.

The flat felt cooler after the bathroom. The onion had gone into oil. Jeera. The first tadka smell of the day. She was not at the stove.

She was on the bed.

Sitting on her side, the new saree tucked carefully so it would not crease, the head towel still packed, the light green blouse holding her chest in that clean sleeveless line. She had her phone in both hands. The glass was black. She pressed the side button. Pressed it longer. The red light of her cheap charger was on at the folding table, the wire stretching to the socket near the wall. She pulled the wire, looked at the pin, pushed it in again as if a tighter push would wake a dead thing.

The moment I came out she looked up.

Her eyes went to the towel at my waist and then to my face and then back to the phone, fast. Not a long look. A mother’s look that has already moved on to the next problem.

“This phone is not working since morning,” she said.

The panic was under it. Not loud. Not a cry. The small panic of a person whose whole day now lives in a black glass. 

“I put it on charge also, see.” She turned the phone so I could see the black. “Whole night it was on charge. In the morning also I put. It is not coming back. Nothing. Not even the battery picture.”

I stood there in the towel, hair wet, the smell of soap still on me, and I felt the other heat try to rise again only because she was sitting on the same sheet with her pallu a little loose at the shoulder. I walked to the bed before that thought could grow a body.

“Show me, let me check,” I said.

She put it in my hand. Our fingers touched. Her skin was still cool from the lotion. Mine was warm from the tap.

I pressed the side button. Nothing. I pressed the side button and the volume together, as shown in youtube videos. Nothing. I tapped the back with two fingers, not hard, the stupid tap people do when they have already accepted it is dead. The glass stayed dead.

“See,” she said. Her voice went thinner. “I told you. Only two years old and already this drama. Yesterday also it died in the evening. Now morning also. If someone is calling, how will I know. If…”

She cut herself.

She did not say his name.

She did not have to.

I looked at her charger. The red light was on. The wire was the old one, the one that gets warm if it stays in too long. I pulled her phone off that wire.

“Wait,” I said. “Yours maybe is gone. Try mine.”

My charger was on the floor on my side, near the socket I use for the laptop. I sat on the edge of the bed in the towel and bent. The towel opened a little at my thigh. I did not adjust it in a hurry. I did not want the hurry to look like anything. I plugged her dead phone into my charger.

The pin went in.

I left it there.

[V1star]

[V1star]

[V1star]

[V1star]

[Leo Arya]

From day One I am a regular reader of this story.. And praise your writing skills so many times.. But now I have to say the repitation of same things will make the story boring.. From last 3-4 updates we read the same things.. My intention is not to criticise you.. Just share a POV of a reader.. Hope you understand the matter

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 27 – Wednesday (continued)  
3 December 2025 – Wednesday

The pin went in.

The small light on my charger block came on after a second. White, not the tired red of her old wire. The glass of her phone stayed black. No battery picture. No logo.

“Let it sit,” I said. “Sometimes it takes time if it has gone fully down. Your wire is half-dead anyway. This one pulls faster.”

She nodded, but her eyes stayed on the glass as if staring would force a logo to appear. The head towel had loosened a little at the side. One wet curl was stuck to her temple. Another had escaped near her ear. The light green blouse sat close. When she leaned forward to check whether the pin had seated properly, the neckline fell the way those necklines fall in this house now — not by accident, not fully by design — and the inner curve of both breasts came into the grill light for a long second. Warm. Lotion-smooth. The gold chain slipped into that deep line and stayed there. She sat back only when the chain touched skin.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was still morning-soft. “You change. Tea is getting cold.”

I took the cream shirt from the chair. She had ironed it again. The collar stood properly. The formal pants were folded over the same chair, the belt still in the loops. I turned toward the almirah because there is no other place in this flat to change. The towel was still at my waist. I kept my back to her and pulled the inner on first. Then I opened the towel and put the shirt and pant on.

I looked anyway.

Not at the wall. Not at the buttons.

At her.

She was waiting on the edge of the bed with two cups already poured, one hand around her steel glass, the other checking the pallu pin as if the pin might slip if she did not watch it. The new saree cloth was soft. It sat into her waist and then opened over the hips. The sleeveless blouse held her chest up and together. The neck was the house neck she has been wearing for weeks — not a party cut, only low enough that the deep line between her breasts was part of the morning, the way the gold chain was part of the morning, the way the silver bracelet was part of the morning. When she breathed, that line moved. When she lifted the glass, the blouse pulled and the upper swell showed warmer against the green. The cloth was thin enough that I could see the shape the bra was making underneath. Not the old cotton one. The one that lifts.

She caught me at once.

She did not only raise an eyebrow this time.

She kept the glass down on the folding table with a small, deliberate click and looked at my face the way she looks when she has already decided the sentence and is only choosing the speed of it.

“Sunny.”

“Yyyy yess Ma?”

“You have become adult now, no?”

The shirt was still open at the last two buttons. I closed them. My fingers felt thick. The belt buckle was suddenly too loud.

“What?”

“Don’t say what.” Her voice was not angry. It was open. That was worse. Open meant she had been watching me watch her for days and had only now decided to put it on the table with the tea. “I have noticed. You keep staring. For some days now. Clothes. Neck. The way I sit. The way I bend for the fridge. All that. I am not blind. I live in this same house.”

Heat went up my neck. I tucked the shirt in so I would have something to do with my hands. The fabric pulled across the stomach I already knew was there.

“No, Maa. I didn’t—”

“Relax.” She said it first, before I could put any sentence on top of it. “I know there are no wrong intentions. I know that. You are my son. I cooked for you before you had teeth. I am not going to pretend I don’t know what a twenty-one-year-old body does when it lives this close to a woman who has started wearing things again. Body happens. Eyes happen. I am not going to make a court case out of it.”

She smiled. Soft. Almost fond. Then she picked the glass up again and held it near her mouth without drinking.

“Only,” she said, “you should also look for a girlfriend.” She said it the way she says buy milk. Simple. Practical. As if a girlfriend was a packet that could be picked up on the way back from office. “I am open-minded. You already know that. College was fine, you were studying, I didn’t push. Office at least you should try. There must be some girls there. Talk. Sit. Ask one of them for tea. Something. Don’t let the whole day finish only on code and then come home and use your eyes on me.”

I sat down opposite her because standing in a half-tucked shirt was making the talk worse. The tea was strong. The onion tadka was still in the kitchen air. Ordinary morning on top of a talk that was not ordinary. The folding table sat between us like a small, useless wall.

“There is no one Ma” I said.

“There is always someone. You don’t look enough, beta.”

“I look, Ma. I don’t find any girl around my age interesting enough.”

The words came out flatter than I planned. I drank tea so I would not add more. The steel was hot against my lip.

She held the glass near her mouth and her eyes changed. Half a smile. The kind that sits in the cheek first and then reaches the eyes.

“So?” she said. “Interested in women your mother’s age, or what.”

I laughed. It came out too quick. Too high.

“Ma. You say anything.”

“What did I say.” She drank. A small sip. Then she put the glass down again and leaned forward a little, not enough to be a performance, enough that the green blouse opened another inch. “I am only asking. You yourself said girls your age are not interesting. Then what is interesting. Tell me. Office girls are too thin? Too loud? Too much lipstick? What.”

“Nothing Ma. Drink your tea.”

“I am drinking.” The smile stayed a little. She let it stay. “Don’t make that face. I am your mother. I can also joke sometimes. Haha.”

I smiled back because not smiling would have made the air thicker.

I looked at the sabzi she had put on my plate. Dry. Jeera. Two rotis from the box, reheated on the tawa, a little hard at the edge. I tore one. The sound of tearing roti felt too loud.

“It’s already nine-thirty, beta. When will you be leaving? Not getting late?” she said after a minute, as if the other talk had been only steam that could be waved away.

“I can go a little late today.” I kept my eyes on the roti. “There is a meeting in the evening. Late one. I’ll have to stay anyway. If I leave at ten, ten-thirty also it is fine.”

“Evening meeting?”

“Haan. Some delivery discussion. Sinha sir. He wants everyone in one room. You know how he is.”

She nodded. The head towel moved. She put two fingers on the tuck to keep it packed. A drop of water ran from the towel down the side of her neck and disappeared under the gold chain.

“Then what time will you come?”

The question was ordinary. It did not feel ordinary. Monday morning she had asked the same way. The return time has become a thing in this house. A clock that belongs to more than office traffic. A clock that belongs to an afternoon door and a last seen that freezes.

“Around seven-thirty,” I said. “Or eight. Depends when the meeting ends. If it stretches, I’ll message. Don’t wait for dinner if it goes too long.”

Once she knew I had time, she came back to the girlfriend as if that file had not been closed. 

“If the problem is looks, then start gymming, Sunny.” She pointed at me with the same hand that had flour on it yesterday. Today the hand was clean. Lotion-clean. Purple polish duller but still there, catching the grill light when she moved. “Shed some weight. You have put on since college. I see it when you tuck the shirt. The old shirts don’t sit the same.”

I know what I look like. Five-ten height. Wheatish. Beard coming in properly now, not the college patch. Hair still thick. In college I was kind of fit. The shirts were XL and they sat. Now the old XL does not close on the stomach. I already wear XXL. The stomach is there. Not an old uncle’s stomach. A noticeable one. Soft. The kind that sits on the belt when I ride the bike. I have never been interested in gymming. The thought of paying for a place to sweat next to other men has always felt like a waste.

“I don’t like gym, Ma. You know that already,” I said.

“Who likes working out, Sunny. Nobody likes it. Still people go. Look at Azad Sahab. He still goes regularly.” She said his name the way she now says salt. Part of the kitchen. Part of the air. “Look at him. This age, and still fit. Shoulders. Stomach. He works out. That is why his body is like that. You also can do something. Even walking. Even the stairs when the lift is broken. Something.”

I thought it.

I did not say it.

Maybe that is why he could put a woman like you on a bed.

The sentence was fully formed. It sat on my tongue with the tea. I swallowed both.

I took the opening instead.

“Maa, tell me honestly. What do you like about him.” I kept my voice light. “About Azad Sahab. You keep putting him in every second sentence. I am asking. That’s all.”

[Farz@123]

Wow really a long update and the story needs to be sex oriented and the way to conclusion and most focus on sex basically

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 27 – Wednesday (continued)
3 December 2025 – Wednesday

Her glass stopped halfway to her mouth.

For a second she looked shy. Real shy, not the performed kind. A small thing in the cheek, in the way she looked down at the sabzi and then up again, as if the question had touched a place she still kept covered even after everything else had come off.

“Why are you so interested today.”

“You keep talking about him. Breakfast, dinner, tiffin, rent, gym, everything. I am asking. That’s all.”

She smiled, shook her head once, and then she talked. Once she started, the shyness did not last. The fondness did.

“He is successful,” she said first. The word came easy, as if she had said it to herself many times already. “Not like these building men who only sit near the gate and talk about other people’s wives. He has property. He has the other building near Jogeshwari. Shops. People in the area listen when he speaks. That is a thing, Sunny. When a man’s word stays, the whole air around him stays different. You feel it when he walks into a room.”

She tore a small piece of roti for herself. She was not eating much. Tea and two bites. The head towel made her look younger and older at the same time. Wet hair. Green blouse. Morning light on the upper curve of her chest.

“Confident,” she said. “He does not ask ten times. He decides. I like that. After so many years of deciding every small thing alone — ration, rent, your fees, which doctor, which college — it feels different when someone else also holds something. When someone says, this is how it will be, and then it is that way.”

She paused. Her thumb moved on the steel glass.

“He is also very powerful in the area. You know that. Watchman, society people, even those women who talk, they still lower their eyes a little when he comes. Mrs. Desai can say what she wants behind a window. In front of him she becomes small. That is not a small thing in a place like this.”

“And the rest? Isn’t he short-tempered? The way he gets rude at times?” I said.

“Temper is there.” She said it without dressing it. No smile this time. “He is a tough man. He does not like a few things. Delay. Lies. People who talk from both sides of the mouth. That kind of thing. He gets angry. His voice changes. You have heard it. I have heard it. But overall he is good at heart. He helps. He does not keep accounts of every rupee the way some men do. When he gives, he gives. Bike. Rent. Sweets. A man who counts every favour is a small man. He is not small.”

The bike key was in my bag. I did not touch the bag.

“But then his mother,” I said. “Why is Ammi still like that with you.”

Ma’s mouth tightened a little. Not full anger. The tiredness of a subject she has already turned over many times in this same room, on this same chair.

“The whole building knows what kind of nuisance she is,” I said. “Even before all this. She talks. She makes faces. She stands in the door and looks at people as if they have stolen something from her kitchen.”

I stopped. The two thousand was in my wallet. The sentence Ammi had put on top of it was in my throat. *Unlike your mother. New jawani. Sit with some shame.* I had decided on the stairs not to bring it up. I kept that decision. The notes stayed against my thigh.

“She has her reasons,” Ma said. “It is hard for her to trust any woman after what her own daughter-in-law did. That is the main thing. Once a house has seen that kind of fight, the old person stops trusting any other woman who walks in. Even if the other woman is only bringing food. Even if the other woman is only sitting politely with her pallu pinned.”

She drank.

“That, and her knees. Pain keeps her irritated the whole day. When the body is hurting, the mouth becomes sharp. I have seen it in the parlour also. Old women with pain talk like that. They look for a place to put the pain. A new woman in the building is an easy place.”

“What did the daughter-in-law do?”

Ma looked at me for a second, checking, maybe, whether this talk belonged at a breakfast table with tea and jeera sabzi. Then she told me Azad’s version. I could hear that it was his version. The sentences had his shape. Short. Final. No extra mercy.

“She could not gel with the family,” Ma said. “From the beginning. She was never a family woman. Some women are like that. They want their own house, their own rules, their own timings. Their house is not like that. Ammi is there. The building is there. People come. Rent is collected. Repairs happen. She never accepted their culture and all. Small things also became issues. Food. Festival. Who sits where. Who speaks how. Who touches Ammi’s feet and who does not. Always some problem. Always a face.”

She turned the glass. The purple polish caught the light again.

“She didn’t take care of Ammi properly. That is what hurt him the most, I think. Ammi is his mother after all. In the end she became so cruel that she even stopped cooking food for Ammi. Imagine. In the same house. Plate separate, food separate, and then one day no food. After that the rift became too wide. Azad Sahab decided to separate. What else could he do. A man can take only that much in his own house. He can take a wife who argues. He cannot take a wife who lets his mother go hungry.”

She stopped.

The fan moved the pallu a little. She pinned it back with two fingers. The movement pulled the blouse. The deep line opened. Closed.

Then she added, after a pause, in a softer voice,

“But he still takes care of them. That is the thing. Pays money for his kids’ education and all. Sends money every month. college. Whatever they need. He does not show it off. He just does it. That is how he is. A man can leave a woman and still not leave the children. That also I like.”

She looked at her tea, then at me.

“He is the perfect man a woman can get, Sunny. The earlier wife could not value it. This is what happens when you get everything that you desire. You stop seeing it. You start finding problems in the same things that other people are praying for. Property. Respect. A man who decides. A man who does not ask ten times. She had all of that and she still made a face.”

Perfect.

The word sat on the folding table next to the pickle.

While she was speaking I looked at her cleavage again.

I did not decide to. The blouse made the decision. When she leaned to keep the glass down, the green cloth opened at the neck and the gold chain fell into that deep line and the inner flesh was right there, lotion-smooth, the mark from Monday maybe still under the cup, maybe not. I looked. Longer than a glance. Long enough to see the way the two sides met. Long enough to see the faint shadow the bra cup made. Long enough that my mouth went dry.

She cut herself.

Mid-sentence. Some word about money or college. I lost it.

She showed me her eyes first. Then she reached across the small table and patted my hand. Not a slap. A pat. Warm. The silver bracelet touched my wrist. Her fingers stayed a second longer than a correction needs.

“Look here,” she said. “Not there.”

I looked at her face.

“I am your mother,” she said, quiet, clear. The words were not sharp. They were worse than sharp. They were calm. “Not your girlfriend. This is what happens when there is no girlfriend. The eyes go wherever they find a place. This blouse. This neck. This house. Find someone for yourself, beta. Properly. A girl who will sit across a table and not be me. Or should I start looking for a girl for marriage. You are settled anyway. Job is there. Bike is there. House is running. What are you waiting for.”

I laughed. The laugh was useful. It covered the heat in my ears. It covered the fact that my body had not listened to the word *mother*.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stare Ma.”

“You meant to or not, you were staring.”

“I am too young for marriage right now, Ma. Twenty-one. Who gets married at twenty-one.”

“People do. Your father was not much older.” She took her hand back. The bracelet left a small cool line on my skin. “Anyway. I am not going to the marriage bureaus tomorrow to find a girl. I am only saying. Think about it. Don’t let this age pass only looking at office screens and… other things.”

Other things.

She did not name them. She did not need to. The other things were in the room already. The frozen last seen. The dustbin. The purple cloth. The mark under the cup. The way she said *perfect* with her mouth still soft.

I could see it while she spoke. The fondness. Not only the words. The way her mouth softened on his name. The way she defended Ammi’s distrust and still called him perfect in the same ten minutes. The way temper became “he does not like a few things” and money for the children became proof of heart. She was not describing a landlord. She was describing a man she had already placed in the centre of this 10-by-12, in the centre of the bed, in the centre of the hours I am not home.

I should have left the talk there.

I did not.

“So how did it start,” I said.

She looked at me.

“What start.”

“You and him.” I kept my voice light. A tease. The kind a son is allowed if he smiles. The kind that pretends it is only curiosity and not the thing sitting in the stomach. “The affair. Tell me. I am already late in my own house. I can be late by ten more minutes. The meeting is in the evening anyway.”

She showed me her eyebrows.

Then she smiled.

Not the small shy one from earlier. A different one. The one that knows the story and is deciding how much of it to put on a breakfast table next to cold tea and hard roti. The one that has already decided some of it will be said and some of it will be left in the pause.

“Affair,” she repeated, as if the word itself was funny in this 10-by-12. As if the word was too big for a dripping tap and a glass of water and a man standing near a window. “You have started using big words.”

She turned the glass in her hands. The purple polish caught the grill light. She looked at the glass, then at me, then at the dead phone still black on the charger.

“So it all started when we both…”

[V1star]

Author sunny bro.... Atleast make her understand that her son loves milfs(her). And she likes that.
(So that things will get spiced up.,...
In future episodes make sunny to involve in her dressing, style,looks,

[Aragon]

Please post the remaining part of Wednesday ASAP..

[Playboy9691]

Wowsome, nice. Need more conversation like this. Open and sexy.

[Kamaveri]

Author sunny bro.... Atleast make her understand that her son loves milfs(her). And she likes that.
(So that things will get spiced up.,...
In future episodes make sunny to involve in her dressing, style,looks,

Yes bro i totally agree with that. Let her know that his son like and get married with women with age of 48-50. Mother should like that because they are open minded people and son should encourage his mother to wear most glamour modern outfit at this age. That could be hottest thing while we imagine her.

[V1star]

Thankyou very much sunny bro for the efforts you are putting into writing this story.
Yesterday you have uploaded 4 parts at a time.
I would have disappointed if sunny went to office after bath.
Then you started to spice up the things.
Anjali caught sunny stare.
Then sunny make a conversation 
Again Anjali caught him again.
Then again sunny went little bolder with his convo.
Happy to see the story stepped into new chapter.
OPEN HEART WITH ANJALI
.ft.sunny

[V1star]