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

[Y12345]

Completely disappointed with this update.. Again the same repetation of what Sunny thought.. It brings the boredom.. The affair part of anjali & the landlord completely missing..

[Leo Arya]

From the beginning, I always admire the story.... But now I can say I start to lose interest just because of this repetition.. I know it is slow burn.. But it seems very slow.. And if you don't add the romantic part between anjali & azad, the story becomes stagnant.. Please understand the point bro!!!

[Paty@123]

Azad is trying to pull Sunni into his Mafia activities, for which Anjali is cooperating with innocence and little faster movement of story is required

[wxxxx]

Readers are waiting with bated breath to see what will unfold once Sunny’s mother, Anjali, and the landlord, Mr. Azad, return to Sunny’s flat. I earnestly request the author, Authorsunny, to fulfill the readers' expectations soon.

[Aragon]

Hopefully we will witness some exciting scenes in upcoming updates..!!!!

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 29 
6 December 2025 – Saturday

They went under the entrance shadow and the stairwell took the rest. I stepped back from the grill.

The room was as Ma had left it. Tube light on. One steel glass with a dried line of tea. Charger cable hanging off the table. The chair still holding what she had decided not to wear.

I moved first to the bed. The grey satin nighty was thrown across her pillow. I picked it up, rolled it once, and kept it on the upper shelf of the almirah, behind the hanging things, where it would not look at her when she walked in. Then the chair. The old black cotton blouse was still in that loose roll, the one she had held against herself last night and called safer. I took that too. Rolled it tighter. Kept it with the nighty. I did not want her coming in from a hall like that and finding her own morning clothes lying around like a complaint.

I looked down at myself.

House shorts. Loose t-shirt. The same thing I wear when the office is finished and the flat is only a flat. No belt. No collar. Bare feet on the tile. Comfortable. 

I went to the door and stood there with my palm on the door knob.

The compound had gone quiet again. No sedan door. No watchman’s chair scbanging. What came instead was the stair.

Concrete. Slow. Not one person.

I waited for the ground-floor door. That sound I know. The iron. The latch. Azad Sahab living down there with his mother. If he had dropped her and gone in, that door would have closed first and only her steps would have come up.

It did not close.

Two sets. His were heavier, a little uneven, the drink still in the knee. Hers were shorter and careful. Heel, then the other heel, then a small pause as if the turn of the landing had to be negotiated. Bangles somewhere in it. Net cloth brushing the wall once.

My throat went dry before they reached the third floor. The steps stopped. A shadow cut the strip under the door.

Then a loud knock on the door. The knock was not hers.

It was a man’s knock. Full fist. The kind that does not ask if anyone is sleeping.

My heart jumped so hard I felt it in the teeth.

I knew the door. I have opened this door ten thousand times. Tonight the latch felt thinner. I did not open at once. I stood with my hand on it and counted one breath, then another.

The second knock was louder. The wood shook in the frame.

I swallowed, turned the latch, and pulled.

Azad Sahab filled the doorway.

He was not holding her. She was behind him. His shoulders took the whole frame. For a second I had only him — white shirt with the first two buttons open, black trousers that still held the banquet shine, gold at the wrist, chain at the neck, beard neat even now, eyes that did not bother with a greeting. The smell hit before the face finished arriving. Woody. Leather. And under it the hard, sweet sting of alcohol, close enough that it felt like it had stepped in ahead of him.

He did not smile.

From behind his arm her voice came, low and quick.

“Let’s go inside.”

I moved aside because the body moved before the mind found a sentence. He walked in as if the room had been waiting for him. The strong perfume and the drink came with him and sat in the tube light.

Then I saw her.

She was looking straight at me, and I looked back at her from bottom to top.

It lasted a few seconds. That is all a doorway gives you. It was enough.

The heels were black. Simple. Pointed. No heavy work on them, only a thin strap over the instep and a heel high enough that her ankle had to hold a new kind of balance. The polish on the nails was the same black from the parlour chair. Against the old tile of our landing they looked like they had come from another building.

The saree was black net, floral, the flowers worked in a darker thread so they showed only when the light caught them. It was not the thick party net that hides a body. It was the other kind. You could see skin through it if you let the eye stay. She had tied it lower than she ties a saree in this house. The waistband sat under the navel. The navel itself was a small dark shadow in the net, bare, and the soft plane of her stomach above it showed in a way her old cotton sarees had never allowed. 

One wrist had the silver bracelet he had bought weeks ago. The other had a stack — four or five black glass bangles and one dull silver one over them. 

Then the blouse.

Black. The V started at the base of the throat and ran down, clean and deep, the nine inches Mukesh ji had spoken of with the tape still on his neck. It did not hint. It opened. The inner curve of both breasts sat in that cut, pushed up and held by the wired satin underneath, so the shape was not a suggestion. It was two full, heavy rounds meeting in a line and then falling away into the cups. The cloth of the blouse was cut close under the arm and across the side, so the outer swell was clear even in the yellow tube light. When she breathed, the V moved. A little more skin. A little less. 

A necklace sat in the hollow of her throat. Thin. Studded. Not the old thin gold.

I looked again.

Papa’s chain was not there.

For five years that chain had been the one thing on her neck that did not change with the week. Tonight it was gone. In its place was this new, finer thing that belonged to the same evening as the heels and the net.

Her face had been built for a hall. The makeup was still holding — not the cheap compact from our washbasin, the parlour kind, even at this hour. Kajal still sharp. A soft shine on the cheek. One thin strand of the new hair cut had come free and was lying on her cheek. She looked younger than the woman who makes tea in this room. Heroine is the word the landing had already used. The studs in her ears caught the tube light every time she turned her head a fraction. Small. Sharp. They made the neck look longer.

She was the most expensive thing that had ever stood in this frame. And she was my mother.

It was only a stare. Doorway-length. Nothing I could be accused of if a neighbour had been on the landing. She felt it anyway. She pulled the pallu across the V with her right hand, covering the line between her breasts, trying to make the blouse look like a blouse again. The bangles on that wrist rang once.

She smiled. The smile did not know where to sit.

“What happened, beta? Are you alright? Did we wake you up? Sorry…”

She lifted the same hand toward her own mouth and tipped it, a small drinking motion, eyes flicking toward his back and back to me.

He is drunk. That is what the hand said. He will behave a little wrongly. Bear it.

Then she stepped closer, close enough that the net almost touched my shorts, and the next line came down to a whisper.

“You got his bag, na? He came up to take the bag. He will leave soon.”

I nodded. I did not trust a longer answer.

She went past me into the room, still fixing the pallu, still failing. The pin that should have held it at the shoulder was not doing its work. Either it had come out on the stair or it had been taken out earlier, in the car, so a hand could go where a pinned pallu does not allow. The cloth hung off her arm. The V stayed open underneath it.

As she passed, the rest of her arrived.

The saree was heavy. It made that stiff, expensive rustle our old cotton never made. Jewellery answered it — bangles, the faint silver at the ankle I had fastened on her myself on another night. And the back. The blouse was two hooks and a strip and then skin. Fair. Wide. The pallu had not found that either. The jeans days had shown me the shape of her seat under cloth. This was different. The net clung to the round of it when she took the step in, then loosened, then clung again. Black on black. The same back I had seen in the morning’s hall, only now it was three feet from me and real and moving toward our bed.

I pushed the door and closed it. Latched it.

Not because the building did not know. Anyone who had been at a window when the sedan stopped already knew. I closed it because I could not stand the thought of one more pair of eyes on this tube light.

Azad Sahab was already on the bed.

Not on the edge like a guest. On it. Shoes still on. One knee apart. The white shirt open enough that the dark of his chest showed when he leaned. He looked around the room the way a man looks at a place he has already decided is his for the next while.

“Water,” he said. Not to me. To her. The voice was louder than this room is built for. “Cold. Why are you taking so much time, Anjali? I asked you downstairs only.”

“Haan, coming,” she said. “Two minutes.”

She went to the kitchen corner on those heels. The walk was not the walk she has in sandals. Each step was a small argument with the floor. The ankle on the left side tilted in once and she caught the counter with her fingers. The net dragged. The payal sounded against the tile like it did not belong near our fridge.

She opened the fridge. Took the bottle from the door. Took a glass from the rack. Came back toward the folding table.

He watched her the whole way.

She bent to put the glass down.

The pallu, already unpinned, slid off the shoulder and hung from the elbow.

The V went with the bend.

I had paid for the bra that was under that blouse. I had seen the box. I had not seen this.

When she folded forward to pour, the cut opened on both sides. The wired cups held her, but they could not hide what the angle gave. Two full, heavy shapes, the inner halves bare, the skin tight and pale under the tube light, the dark line between them running down until the satin took over. Seventy, seventy-five percent of the swell was just there — round, sitting in the V like the blouse had been cut only to offer them to whoever was sitting in front of her. The satin showed at the edge, blacker than the blouse, a thin shine. I thought of the party. Of a hundred people. Of whether this pallu had ever been pinned at all, or whether it had been like this in that hall also, and only the distance had saved her.

Both her hands were busy. One on the bottle. One on the glass. She let the pallu hang and poured.

Azad Sahab’s eyes were on the same place mine were.

She straightened enough to hold the glass out to him. The V stayed deep. The pallu stayed off.

He took the glass with one hand. With the other he caught her wrist.

Pulled.

She went forward with a small sound that was not quite a word. A giggle first, then a hush.

“Azad Sahab… wait… water first, na…”

He drank. Three long swallows. His throat moved. A little water ran from the corner of his mouth into the beard and he did not wipe it. When the glass came down from his mouth he did not let her wrist go. He pulled again. She was standing between his knees.

His right leg came around behind her calves and closed. She was held there, net against his trousers, the V at the height of his face.

She shut her eyes and tipped her head back for a second, as if the room had tilted. Then she tried to bring the pallu across her chest with the free hand.

The cloth stopped halfway.

I saw why a moment later. His shoe was on the end of the pallu. Planted. The net ran from her shoulder to the floor under his foot, and every time she pulled, she only pulled herself closer to him.

He turned his face. The empty glass came around, toward me.

He did not speak. He did not need to. The look was the same look from the phone in the hall. Take it. Make yourself useful.

I took the glass.

I went to the kitchen. I did not look over my shoulder while I walked. The tile felt too long.

Behind me there was cloth. Net. A heavier shift of weight on the bed frame.

Her bangles rang, not the small market sound, the stacked sound of a wrist that has gone up around a neck.

I kept the glass in the sink. My hand stayed on the steel for a second because the steel was ordinary.

When I turned, I looked.

She was still standing between his knees. Her hands were not at her sides. They were up. Fingers in his hair, or on the back of his head — I could not see which from the sink — holding him there or holding herself up. His hands were on the skin the blouse did not cover. Open back. Palms moving over that fair width, slow, as if he was checking that the hooks were still his to open later. One thumb found the edge of the blouse near her ribs and stayed there.

She bent her mouth to his ear.

“Azad ji, please. Not now… Sunny…”

His hands loosened. Not off. Only less.

She picked the bottle up from the table with the hand that was free and turned toward the kitchen, toward me, as if putting the bottle back would make the room a kitchen again.

He caught the same wrist.

“Where are you going, my jaan?”

The word sat in our tube light like it had always lived here.

She smiled at him. Not at me. The smile was helpless and pleased at the same time.

“Offo, Azad Sahab… the bottle…”

He pulled. She went. This time he did not leave her standing. He brought her down across his thigh, net and all, one arm around the bare back, the other still on the wrist that held the bottle. She landed with a rustle that filled the whole flat. 

He looked past her shoulder at me, still in the kitchen corner.

He took the bottle from her fingers and held it out.

Same look.

I walked the four steps and took it. I was close enough now that I could smell her perfume over his drink. The branded one. Warm. I could also see her face from the side. She would not give it to me. Her eyes were on the wall above the almirah, on the grill, on his shirt, anywhere that was not her son holding a fridge bottle two feet from her lap.

That was the strange part.

She was not fighting the volume of his voice. She was not fighting that he had come up at one in the morning. She was not fighting the way he had put her on his thigh in the same bed I sleep on. What she was fighting was only the angle. The fact of me. If I had not been in the corner, the rest of it would already have been a different scene.

His hand left her wrist and went to her waist, over the saree, fingers spreading on the net where the blouse ended. He turned her toward his mouth.

She put a hand on his chest.

“Wait…”

It was not a full stop. It was the first second a person gives when they remember there is another pair of eyes in the room. She turned her face. His name left her mouth under her breath.

“Azad…”

He took the mouth anyway.

Open. Not a peck. A man’s kiss after drink, after a car, after a hall that has already used her for the evening. His beard against her chin. Her lipstick going further outside the line it had already lost. For a moment her hand on his chest pushed. Then the bangles went up around his neck and I could not tell if the hands were pulling him off or pulling him in. The saree made a loud, ugly, rich sound as he dragged her closer on the thigh. Payal. Glass bangles. Net.

I had seen them kissing in the kitchen downstairs from the bushes. But this was different, this was two feet. This was our bed. This was both of them knowing I was in the kitchen and doing it anyway. She had not opposed him hard enough to make him stop. That was the thing that sat in the chest worse than the kiss itself.

His right hand left her waist and came up the front of the blouse, over the net, toward the V. The fingers were already shaping to take the weight of her breast when she twisted.

She tore her mouth away and sucked a breath like a person coming up from water.

“Enough… a second… Sunny is—”

The sentence broke.

She looked at me.

The lipstick was finished as a line. It was on her upper lip, on the lower, a little on his beard. Her mouth was wet. The lock of hair was stuck to her cheek. The pallu was somewhere between his knee and the floor. The V was fully open on my side. The satin cups were working. The skin above them moved with the breath she was trying to slow down.

“Beta,” she said. The mother-voice came back in pieces, not whole. “I am so sorry. Please give us five-ten minutes.”

Then, quieter, only for me, while his hand was still on her ribs:

“I will handle him. Please. Five-ten minutes only. Can you go out, please? Go down. Or stay on the stairs for some time. I will call you. Sorry, beta.”

Her breath was heavy. Full. The words had to climb out of it.

There was no third thing I could do that was not a fight in front of him. A fight in this room, at this hour, with that much drink in him and that much of her already on his lap, would not have been a son’s fight. It would have been a scene the whole stairwell would have owned by morning.

I made a sound. It was meant to be nothing. It came out like a dry, stupid chuckle, the kind a throat makes when it has no sentence left.

That was when I felt myself.

The shorts had been only shorts when I opened the door. Now they were not. I was hard and I had not noticed the moment it started — maybe at the V when she poured, maybe at the kiss, maybe earlier, at the missing chain. It sat in the thin cloth in a way a man cannot hide if another man is looking for it.

Azad Sahab was looking for it.

His eyes dropped from my face to the front of the shorts and stayed there long enough to make a point. The look on his mouth was not surprise. It was disgust, mixed with something that enjoyed the disgust. 

I nodded.

I walked to the door. My own walk felt wrong. The shorts, the bare feet, the fact that I had to turn my shoulder a little so the shape of it would not be the last thing in the room. I opened the latch.

From the bed her voice came again, softer, ashamed in the specific way a mother is ashamed when she has to give a son an instruction like this.

“Beta, please shut the door, haan. I am so sorry I have to tell you this.”

I had the door half open when the bed frame sounded.

He had pulled her back.

I did not need to turn to know the mouth had gone on hers again. The smooch was wet enough to hear. The saree went loud. Bangles climbed. Payal struck the wooden edge once, hard. Then the mattress took a heavier weight — her weight — as he put her down on the bed we sleep on and followed the sound with his body.

I stepped out.

I pulled the door.

The latch clicked.

On the landing the yellow bulb made the same tired circle it makes every night. The stair went down into the dark of the second floor.

[Paty@123]

Shameful mother and in that position by seeing the activities of the couple get errection whether it the son of anybody else except real husband, if it the son he would be spoiled and his mind would get confused and gets errection ,after every thing completed, he would start hating himself and his mother though he has accepted the relationship

[Authorsunny]

[Hot mom lover]

This update has been far more exciting and better than the previous ones. I eagerly look forward to the next update being even more thrilling—something that sets the readers' hearts racing with intense excitement. I hope the scenario unfolds like this: Sunny is left waiting on the stairs outside the room; his mother tells him to wait for 5–10 minutes but ends up keeping him there for 3–4 hours. She forgets to close the door completely, leaving a slight gap. From his hiding spot on the stairs, Sunny watches his mother and Azaad Uncle engaged in hardcore, rough sex and hears their intense moans. Hearing his mother’s moans during this rough encounter, Sunny’s heart pounds with intense arousal; standing hidden on the stairs, he masturbates in rhythm with the sounds of their lovemaking and every thrust Azaad Uncle makes. It would be amazing if this were included.

[Aragon]

Finally something erotic happened.. It's sure that azad stills stay at least 2-3 hours... Waiting for the next part & one thing you have a great writing skills

[Leo Arya]

This update deserves an appreciation... One thing is clear that Azad is not easily leave their room.. What will be the sunny's next step!?? Waiting for that.. Carry on bro.....

[wxxxx]

Readers sincerely feel that it was not quite right for Sunny’s mother, Anjali, to simply say, "Beta, please shut the door, haan. I am so sorry I have to tell you this." Since both Anjali and the landlord, Azad Saheb, were heavily intoxicated, readers believe the scene should have depicted them engaging in deviant sexual acts and obscene talk inside the room; this would have caused Sunny—watching from the kitchen—to become intensely sexually aroused. Readers earnestly request Authorsunny (the writer of the story *My Mother and the Landlord*) to incorporate such a scene into the remainder of "Chapter 29 (6 December 2025 – Saturday)"—specifically, a moment where Sunny, secretly peeping through a crack in the door, witnesses their deviant sexual acts and hears their obscene dialogue, leading to extreme sexual arousal.

[wxxxx]

This update has been far more exciting and better than the previous ones. I eagerly look forward to the next update being even more thrilling—something that sets the readers' hearts racing with intense excitement. I hope the scenario unfolds like this: Sunny is left waiting on the stairs outside the room; his mother tells him to wait for 5–10 minutes but ends up keeping him there for 3–4 hours. She forgets to close the door completely, leaving a slight gap. From his hiding spot on the stairs, Sunny watches his mother and Azaad Uncle engaged in hardcore, rough sex and hears their intense moans. Hearing his mother’s moans during this rough encounter, Sunny’s heart pounds with intense arousal; standing hidden on the stairs, he masturbates in rhythm with the sounds of their lovemaking and every thrust Azaad Uncle makes. It would be amazing if this were included.

Author "Hot mom lover," your imaginary scenario is quite arousing.

[Ayush01111]

Please dont comfort anjali after this sunny should be wild after tonight no respect for mother let son give a complete different person she knew sunny should not see anjali now for some days come home late let anjali enjoy hia freedom and fell like hell and heven in same time

[Aragon]

Eagerly waiting for the next update bro......

[baddu]

Waiting for update

[Paty@123]

Eagerly waiting plz

[wxxxx]

Shameful mother and in that position by seeing the activities of the couple get errection whether it the son of anybody else except real husband, if it the son he would be spoiled and his mind would get confused and gets errection ,after every thing completed, he would start hating himself and his mother though he has accepted the relationship

Sunny loves his mother, Anjali, more than his own life. He had wanted to secretly and silently watch the perverse sexual acts between his mother and their landlord, Mr. Azad, by peeking from the kitchen into the room; however, Anjali failed to understand his intentions and asked him to close the door, which provoked a negative reaction in him. Sunny has now lost the chance to watch easily; to do so now, he would have to peer through a crack in the door. Some time ago, he had even tried hard to observe what the landlord and his mother were doing by looking through the kitchen window from outside the house. Sunny also secretly admires his mother's beauty whenever she wears a sleeveless blouse. Noticing this, Anjali smiles and says: ["It is all right, beta. Men are men, after all. But keep this much in mind — I am your mother. And maybe I will not feel bad. In fact I may even feel good that at this age I am still getting this much attention."] Sunny has a tendency to watch.

[Leo Arya]

Eagerly waiting for the update bro.....

[rp7575]

Great update bhai we are waiting for next level update thank you