[saka1981]

Whenever he gets the opportunity, Sunny enjoys looking at his mother's breasts. Today, he went a step further, staring at his mother's breasts while masturbating. Compared to Azad, Sunny now seems to be getting more opportunities to see Anjali's naked body. I'm eagerly waiting to see what happens next...

Tnq for the update :)

[wxxxx]

The latest update is fantastic and has met the readers' expectations. Looking ahead, readers are hoping that after the landlord, Mr. Azad, visits Sunny’s flat—on either Sunday or Monday—and subsequently leaves, Sunny will give his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, a body massage instead of Kavita doing it.

Sunny will tell his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, that the next time the landlord, Mr. Azad, comes over, he will lay out a mat on the kitchen floor and lie down on it for as long as the landlord stays.

[Brutal Hunk]

Definitely Amazing Story And Outstanding Waiting. There Are A Few Stories Over This Particular Site That Has Caught My Eyes. And Are Truly Gripping And Leaves The Readers With The Enthusiasm Of What Comes Next. And We're Desperately Waiting To Witness Further Updates. Please Make Sure To Post As Soon As Possible. And Please Don't Let This Story Become Into A Complete Humiliation Of The Son And His Mother. Especially By Azad. The Bitter Words From The People In The Building And From Azad's Mother Are Truly Acceptable, As The Societal Norms Does Not Approves Such Relationships. But Don't Let Azad Humiliate Anjali Or Sunny Like Low Lifes. Let This Be A Romantic Story With Realistic Ups And Downs And End It On Beautiful And Practical Note.

[mzafar]

Sunny and his family do not own their own apartment; his mother, Mrs. Anjali, has entered into a relationship with their landlord, Mr. Azad, to secure Sunny’s future. Mr. Azad has reduced the rent for their apartment from 12,000 rupees to 7,000 rupees, and he does not charge them for electricity or other utility bills. He even assisted Sunny in purchasing a motorcycle for his daily commute to work.

Sunny has accepted his mother’s relationship with Mr. Azad, viewing it as beneficial for himself. Mr. Azad has also provided a new air conditioner (A/C) for their apartment, and the readers are eager to see it installed.

Once the A/C is set up, whenever Mr. Azad visits their apartment—perhaps on a Sunday or Monday night—Sunny plans to lie on a mat on the kitchen floor. From there, he intends to observe the intimacy between his mother and Mr. Azad through a gap in the bedroom curtains.

After Mr. Azad leaves, Sunny will then give his mother a thorough body massage, much like Kavita, a professional from Urban Company, would.

[baddu]

Excellent update. Waiting for next update

[SK369]

Waiting for sunday update

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 30 - New Day Part 2
December 07, 2025

The phone buzzed against my thigh. I opened my eyes on the kitchen floor. The tile had gone warm under my back. For a second I did not remember why I was down here. Then the front of my shorts reminded me—still damp, stuck to the skin. The curtain was half drawn. Beyond it I could hear Ma’s even snoring.

I sat up and checked the screen. Amazon delivery. The rider was calling. I answered low.

“Yes.”

“Sir, your delivery is scheduled. You are at home? I can come by two.”

“Yes. Two is fine. Third floor.”

“Okay sir.”

I cut the call. Through the gap in the curtain I could see her on the bed. She was lying on her back, one arm above her head, breasts bare and heavy, still shining faintly with the oil that had not been wiped. The nipples had softened in sleep but were still darker than the rest of her skin. The beige panty was on. Her mouth was slightly open with the snore. I could not walk into the main room like this.

I stood, went into the bathroom, and pulled the door shut harder than usual so the latch clicked loud. Inside I peeled the shorts off. The wet patch had dried at the edges and gone stiff. But the dark color of the pants helped it to camouflage. I stayed inside another minute, running the tap so she would hear movement.

When I came out she was already sitting up. The light-blue nighty was on her, pulled on in a hurry—the neckline sat crooked and one strap of the beige bra showed where she had not fastened it properly. Her hair was tied in a loose pony. She was bent over the bed, gathering the thin white plastic sheet Kavita had left, folding it with both hands. The nighty rode up at the back. She had not noticed me yet.

“Ma.”

She straightened and turned. The nighty settled. “You are up. I did not hear you.”

“I was in the bathroom. How is the back?”

She pressed one hand to the place and moved her shoulders once. “Better. Much better than morning. The pulling is less. She knew where to press.” She finished folding the sheet and set it aside. “Come. I will make lunch. You must be hungry.”

I walked fully into the room. The smell of the oil was still there, faint now. She moved to the kitchen, tying the nighty string tighter at the side.

“It was good?” I asked.

“Hmm.” She lit the stove. “At first I was nervous. I have never had anyone massage like that. But she talked. Made it normal. The oil was warm. When she reached the lower back I could feel the knot leaving. And… other places also. It felt light after.” She glanced at me, then back at the pan. “Azad Sahab arranged it without telling. From Pune. He remembered I said it was paining. That is thoughtful, no? Most men forget.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Yes.”

“You should also be like that when you get married,” she said, stirring. “Women like these things. Not big gifts all the time. Just… someone noticing and doing something without being asked. Surprise. Attention. It stays in the mind.” She smiled a little to herself. “I am feeling very relieved today. After yesterday with Ammi, the standing, the stairs… this was needed.”

“If it helped, you should take it again,” I said. “Not only once.”

She nodded. “I was thinking the same. Let me see the price first.”

I opened the app on my phone and checked. “Around sixteen to eighteen hundred for one hour. Depends on the oil and technique.”

“That is reasonable,” she said. “For how much better the body feels. Yesterday was hectic. Today I can actually stand without wanting to sit every five minutes.” She disposed of the plastic sheet in the kitchen bag, washed her hands, and started the vegetables.

At around 1 pm, the lunch was ready. We then ate quietly. She asked once if the oil smell was too much in the room. I said it was already fading. After lunch she lay back on the bed with her old phone, volume low, the serial playing. Every few minutes the screen froze and she tapped it with her thumb, mouth tightening. I sat on the wooden seat under the window and answered two mails. The afternoon moved slowly. Her annoyance with the hanging phone was clear each time she had to restart the video.

The rider called again at two twenty-eight. I was still on the wooden seat under the window, half-watching a mail thread that did not need answering.

“Sir, I am at the gate. Blue bag.”

“Coming down.”

I stood. She looked up. “Who?”

“Delivery. I will just get it.”

She nodded and went back to tapping the frozen screen. I went down the stairs, took the sealed Amazon box from the boy, and came back up. The box was not heavy. I set it on the folding table without opening it and wiped my hands on my jeans.

“Ma.”

She did not look immediately. The circle was still spinning. “Hmm.”

“Leave that for a minute.”

Something in the voice made her turn. She saw the box. Her eyes moved from it to my face. “What is that?”

“Open it.”

She set the old phone down on the sheet, screen still lit and stuck, and sat up properly. The light-blue nighty shifted across her chest. She pulled the box closer, found the tape, and worked it open with her nail. The smaller blue Samsung box was inside, wrapped in the thin plastic film. She lifted it out and held it in both hands, looking at the picture on the front—the same quiet blue I had chosen on Friday afternoon.

For a few seconds she did not speak. Her thumb moved once over the printed phone on the box.

“This is for me?”

“Yes.”

“When did you…?”

“Friday. After salary. Your phone was dying again in the morning. You said you did not want to break the FD or tell Azad Sahab. So I ordered it.”

She stared at the box. Her eyes had gone wet at the lower lids. She blinked and a tear slipped before she could stop it. She wiped it quickly with the side of her finger, almost angry at it, and gave a short, unsteady breath that was half laugh.

“Sunny. This is too much. Why did you spend like this? I told you the old one is managing. It hangs, that is all. I can manage.”

“It is not managing. You cannot keep charging it every two hours.”

She turned the box over as if the price might be written on the back. “How much was it?”

“Around twenty-nine. After the card offer.”

Her mouth opened. She looked at me properly now, the tear track still shining on one cheek. “Twenty-nine thousand? Are you mad? That is almost equal to your one month salary beta. You just started the job. You have your own things. Bike servicing will come. Why are you putting this money on a phone?”

“Because you needed it. And I had the extra from variable pay. It is done now.”

She shook her head, but the scolding had already softened. Another tear came. She did not wipe this one. She set the box carefully on the bed beside her and reached for me with both hands.

“Come here.”

I moved closer. She pulled me down against her. The nighty was thin. Her arms went around my shoulders and she pressed my face into the upper part of her chest, holding tight. I felt the full, warm weight of her breasts against my cheek and collarbone, no bra, the skin still faintly carrying the oil from the morning. She kissed the top of my head, then moved her mouth to my forehead and stayed there, lips pressed, one hand cupping the back of my skull.

“Foolish boy,” she said against my skin. Her voice was thick. “Spending so much. I should be angry. I am angry. But…” She kissed my forehead again, slower. “I love you. You hear me? More than anyone. No matter who else is there, no matter what happens in this house, you are first. You will always be first. Do not forget that.”

“I love you too, Ma.”

She held me a little longer. I could feel her breathing against my hair. Then she loosened her arms and wiped her face with both palms, laughing once under her breath at the wetness.

“Look at me. Crying over a phone. Sit. First we will keep it in front of God. Then we will open it properly.”

She picked up the blue box and carried it to the small temple shelf. I followed. She moved the steel plate aside, set the box on the clean cloth in front of the idols, and lit the diya with the lighter that always stayed there. The flame caught. She stood with her palms joined, eyes closed, for nearly a full minute. I stayed a step behind her. When she opened her eyes she touched the box once with her fingertips, the way she touched the frame of Papa’s photo on certain mornings, and turned.

“Now. Switch it on. But slowly. I want to see everything.”

We sat on the bed again. She kept the box on her lap while I took the new phone out, peeled the thin film from the screen, and inserted the SIM tray she had already removed from the old handset. Her shoulder pressed against mine so she could watch the screen wake. The setup asked for language. She pointed. “Hindi. No, English is also fine. Whatever you use.”

I moved through the first screens. She stopped me twice—“What is that? Cloud backup? No, leave it for now.” Her hand rested on my knee, not moving, just there so she could lean closer when a new window opened. The old phone lay between us, still warm from her hand.

“Contacts first,” she said. “And the photos. But not all photos. Some I will choose. You show me how the selection works. Do not just send everything.”

I connected the cable and started the transfer app. She watched the list appear, her eyes moving over the folders. When I opened the gallery to demonstrate, she put her hand over mine on the screen.

“Wait. That one. No. Not that album. I will do it. You only show me the steps once.”

“It is faster if I—”

“Sunny.” Her voice was gentle but final. “You have already spent the money. Do not spend the whole day also. Show me properly. Then I will sit and finish. There are many unnecessary hings on the old phone I do not want on the new one. I will see myself.”

I showed her the selection screen, how to tick and untick, how the progress bar worked. She repeated the motion with her own thumb, slow, making sure. Our heads were close. I could smell the last of the massage oil on her neck and the ordinary scent of her hair. After a few minutes she took the new phone fully into her hands.

“Ok beta. I have understood now. You go and do your work. Or rest. This will take time anyway. I will call you if something stops.”

She looked at the bright screen, already scrolling, a small real smile on her mouth that had not been there in the morning. Then she leaned in and kissed my forehead once more, quick and firm.

“Thank you, beta. I mean it. Now go. Let me fight with this new thing for some time.”

I moved back to the window seat. She stayed on the bed with both phones in her lap, the new one already unlocked, her thumb moving carefully through the old gallery. Every few minutes she made a small sound—pleased when a set of photos crossed over, annoyed when the cable slipped—and adjusted her position, drawing one leg up under her. For the next two hours she barely looked up, the soft light of the new Samsung on her face, the occasional chime of a transferred data filling the quiet room.

Azad’s call came at around six. Ma was still on the bed with the new Samsung propped against her knee, slowly scrolling through the photos that had finished moving across in the afternoon. The screen light sat on her face. She answered and switched to speaker without looking up.

“Haan… you have started? … Seven-thirty is fine. I will keep tea. Something small only. … Okay. Message when you are near the flyover. … Hmm.”

She set the phone down and rubbed her eyes once. “He will be here by seven-thirty. I should bathe before that. The oil from morning is still on me.”

She stood, one hand going automatically to the small of her back, then dropping when she realised the pull was lighter. “It is actually better today. I can feel it.” She took a clean towel from the almirah and went inside the bathroom.

She pushed the door until the weak latch caught. I heard the bucket filling, the mug striking the floor, water running over skin. The new phone lay face-down where she had left it. I picked it up. The lock screen appeared at once. I tried the old four-digit code she had used for years. The phone shook and refused. I placed it back exactly as it had been.

From inside the bathroom the water kept moving. I could hear the soft slap of the mug against her shoulder, the longer pour when she washed her hair. The sound was ordinary and still it sat under my skin. This morning Kavita’s hands had been on that same back, the oil shining, the beige bra on the floor later. I had sat behind the curtain and watched until I came in my shorts. The wet patch had dried stiff against me. Now she was washing that oil off so she could put on something nice for him. The thought did not leave.

She came out fourteen minutes later, towel wrapped from just under her arms to mid-thigh, hair wet and twisted high. Droplets shone on her shoulders and the upper curve of her chest above the towel. She walked to the almirah and opened both doors, standing in front of it with one hand keeping the towel closed. A cream saree came out first. She held it up, looked at the pallu, and put it back. The dark green one stayed in her hands longer. She shook her head and returned it to the shelf. Her fingers stopped on the yellow cotton with the narrow gold border. She took it out, unfolded the sleeveless blouse that was kept with it, checked the neck, and nodded once.

“Sunny, go and bring one packet of milk. Bread also, if the fresh stock has come. He may ask for toast with the tea.”

I took the money and went down. The lane was ordinary. On the way back the plastic bag knocked against my knee. When I came up the door was open and she was already dressed. The yellow saree was tied neatly, pallu resting over her left shoulder. The blouse was sleeveless and fitted, the neck low enough that the soft upper swell of both breasts showed whenever she moved her arms. A thin line of kajal was on her eyes. Soft rose colour sat on her mouth. The perfume he had given her weeks ago was clear in the room the moment I stepped inside. Her hair was still damp at the ends, left open instead of tied. She looked fresh. The heaviness that had been on her face after Ammi yesterday was not there.

I stood with the bag in my hand and looked at the neck of the blouse. The skin there was warm from the bath. The same place Kavita’s thumbs had pressed this morning. The same place his mouth had been on Friday night when he had her on the bed and the whole floor had heard. The saree was ordinary cotton. The way it sat on her was not. I could see the shape of her breasts under it when she turned. The blouse held them higher than the old house ones used to. A small dark edge of the bite on her neck still showed when the damp hair shifted.

“Milk is inside,” I said.

She smiled, small and real. “Good. He should be here soon.”

I put the milk in the fridge and washed my hands at the sink. The water was cold. I stayed there longer than I needed to. Behind me she was moving plates. The sound of her bangles was light. I dried my hands and sat on the wooden seat under the window. The phone in my pocket was heavy. I did not take it out. I kept my eyes on the floor between my feet and listened to the fan and the small sounds she made while she waited.

The bell rang at eight-oh-seven.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 30 - Continued
December 07, 2025

The bell rang at eight-oh-seven.

She opened the door. Azad stood on the landing in a light grey shirt, collar open, a thick paper bag from a Pune shop held in one hand. The tiredness of the drive was on him. He stepped inside, set the bag on the folding table, and looked at her for a second longer than necessary.

“This yellow,” he said. “It is good on you.”

She moved forward and put both arms around his neck. She kissed his cheek, lingered, then drew back only a little. “You said seven-thirty. It is already eight.”

“Lonavala was choked. Nothing new.” His hand settled on the small of her back, palm flat, and stayed there. He noticed me and gave a short nod. “Sunny. Work is all right?”

“Yes. Normal days.”

“Good.” He let her go and sat on the wooden chair, stretching his legs out. “Tea. I have been in the car since four.”

Ma turned toward the kitchen. Before she could take two steps he reached for the paper bag and held it out.

“First this.”

She stopped. He opened the bag and lifted out a folded Paithani saree still in its clear plastic cover. The border was heavy, deep maroon and gold, the kind that caught light even through the wrapping. She took it with both hands. For a moment she only looked at it.

“Azad Sahab… this is…”

“I saw it after the second meeting. The colour is nice and unique. I told them to pack it properly.” He watched her face.

She held the plastic-covered saree against her chest for a second, then set it carefully on the bed. She stepped close again and hugged him, tighter this time, and kissed his cheek once more, slower. “Thank you. You did not have to.”

“I know.” His hand moved once on her back. “Tea.”

She went to the kitchen. The stove lit. A vessel was set down. Azad’s eyes moved around the room and stopped on the two large AC boxes still standing unopened against the wall.

“Those are still in the boxes,” he said. The ease had left his voice. “I sent them on Saturday morning. Today is Sunday night. Why has no one come?”

Ma came out with the tray—two cups, a plate of toast she had prepared while waiting. She placed it in front of him at once. “The fitter called on Saturday afternoon. He said another installation ran late and he could not reach. He promised Monday morning. I told him to come early, before ten.”

Azad looked at the boxes, then at her. “Monday. I am sitting here and already the shirt is sticking. Call him yourself tomorrow. If he gives any more story, tell me immediately. I will send another person.”

“I will call first thing.” She poured his tea, added sugar the way he took it, and set the cup down. When she bent, the pallu slipped from her shoulder. She did not fix it immediately. He drank, his eyes on the low cut of the blouse, and let the subject of the AC rest for the moment.

She sat on the edge of the bed, closer to his chair than to where I was sitting. “Pune meetings went all right?”

“They finished. One dinner I could not refuse. The usual talk.” He broke a piece of toast. “The heat there is heavier than here.”

Ma picked up the new Samsung and turned the screen toward him. “Look at this. Sunny bought it. My old phone was switching off every two hours. He ordered it on Friday after the salary came and gave it to me this afternoon. I have been transferring photos and contacts since then.”

Azad studied the phone, then looked at me. He nodded once. “You noticed and did it. That is how it should be.” He reached across and patted my upper back, brief and solid. “Continue like this. She will not say when something is needed. You have to see it yourself.”

Ma’s face eased. She angled the phone so he could see his name already saved at the top of her contacts. “It does not hang. The screen is clear.”

He finished the tea. A faint line of sweat had formed at the open collar of his shirt. “This room turns warm very fast after the highway.” He stood, pulled the fabric away from his chest, and glanced again at the boxes. “Monday morning. Do not wait for him to call you.”

“I will not wait.” She stood. “Should I make dinner? I can do paneer the way you like.”

“No paneer tonight. Simple dal and khichdi. I have eaten hotel food for two days. Light is better.”

She agreed and went back into the kitchen. Azad remained seated for a short while, then rose and followed her. I stayed on the wooden seat under the window, phone in my hand, screen dark.

The thin curtain that separated the kitchen from the room was already half-drawn. I could see shapes. Movement. The yellow of her saree. The grey of his shirt.

I shifted on the wooden seat so that my line of sight went straight through the gap at the edge of the curtain. From where I sat I could see her back, the counter, the way the saree sat on her hips. She was lighting the stove. He came in behind her and stopped close enough that his chest almost touched her shoulder blades.

“Turn around,” he said. The words were low.

She did not turn immediately. She set the matchbox down. Her hands stayed on the edge of the counter. He reached forward and caught the end of the pallu where it rested over her left shoulder. He drew it down slowly, the cotton sliding across her upper arm and then off completely. The pallu fell to the side and hung from the knot at her waist. The sleeveless blouse was bare now from the shoulders to the low neck. I could see the soft upper swell of both breasts above the fabric, the skin still slightly damp at the ends of her hair where it touched her collarbone.

He stepped in fully. His body pressed against her back. One hand settled on her waist over the yellow saree, fingers spreading. The other hand came up and rested on the side of her neck, thumb under her jaw. He bent his head and put his mouth against the side of her throat, just below the place where the bite from Friday night had almost faded. The kiss was open. I heard the soft sound of it. She made a small noise in her throat and her shoulders moved once.

“Azad Sahab…” Her voice was already thinner. “Sunny is sitting outside. He will hear.”

“He is looking at his phone.” The words were spoken against her skin. His hand left her neck and moved down. It slid over the front of the blouse, palm covering the left breast completely, fingers pressing into the soft weight. Even through the curtain I could see the way the fabric shifted under his hand, the way her breast gave and then pushed back against his palm. “Stay like this.”

She tried to turn her face. He did not let her. His other hand stayed on her waist, holding her in place against the counter. The hand on her breast moved slowly, deliberately. He squeezed, released, then squeezed again, harder. His thumb found the nipple through the cotton and rubbed across it in a small circle. She drew in a sharp breath.

“Not inside the blouse… please… not now…”

He laughed once, low. The hand that had been on her waist moved lower. It slid over the curve of her hip and then down across the seat of the saree. He gripped her there, fingers sinking into the soft flesh through the cotton, and pulled her back against him so that her ass pressed fully into his groin. I could see the shape of it. The way her body fitted against his. His hand stayed on her breast, still working the nipple through the blouse, while the other hand began to move, rubbing, pressing, sliding the saree a little against her skin.

“Azad Sahab…” The protest was weaker. Her hands were still on the counter, but they were no longer steady. One of them had closed into a fist. “He will—”

“He will sit there and look at his phone.” Azad’s mouth was at her ear now. I could hear every word. “You like when I touch you like this. I can feel it. Your nipple is already hard under the blouse.” He pinched it lightly through the cloth, then rolled it between thumb and finger. She made a sound she tried to swallow. It still came out, small and broken. “See? You cannot even keep quiet.”

His hand left her breast for a moment. It went to the low neck of the blouse and slipped inside. The fingers disappeared under the fabric. I saw the movement clearly through the gap in the curtain—the way the blouse shifted, the way her breast was lifted and then covered by his palm from the inside. Skin on skin now. He held her there, full and heavy in his hand, thumb moving across the bare nipple. She gasped and her head dropped forward.

“Please… ahhh, Azad sahab…”

“I missed you my Jaan…” he whispered. His other hand was still on her ass, gripping, kneading, pulling her back against the hardness I could see even through the grey shirt and the yellow saree. He ground against her once, slow, deliberate. The counter edge pressed into her stomach. “You want me to stop?”

She did not answer. Her breathing had gone uneven. The hand inside her blouse continued to move, squeezing, releasing, fingers spreading and then closing again around the soft weight. Through the curtain I watched the way her shoulders tightened every time his thumb crossed the nipple. My own cock was fully hard, straining against the front of my shorts. I did not touch it. I kept both hands on the phone so that the screen stayed dark and my fingers stayed visible if either of them glanced out.

Azad’s hand came out of the blouse. For a second I thought he would stop. Instead he brought the same hand down and struck her once, hard, across the seat of the saree. The sound was sharp and clear in the small kitchen. She jerked forward against the counter and a short, involuntary sound left her—“Ahh—” before she bit it back. He laughed, low and satisfied, and rubbed the place he had just hit, palm flat, slow circles over the cotton.

“That is for telling me to stop.” His mouth was still at her neck. He kissed the skin there again, open, then bit lightly. “Turn the gas off. The food can wait.”

“No,” she said. The word was breathless. “I have to finish.”

“Food can wait...” Azad’s hand was back inside the blouse. Both hands now—one on her breast, the other still gripping and rubbing her ass through the saree, pulling her against him in a steady rhythm. “You are already wet. I can feel the heat even through the cloth. You have been thinking about this since I walked in.”

She made a small sound that was neither yes nor no. Her head was lowered. The yellow saree had loosened a little at the waist from the way he was holding her. Through the gap in the curtain I could see the side of her breast where his hand was working inside the blouse, the way the soft flesh moved under his fingers, the darker point of the nipple when his thumb pulled it forward. My cock throbbed against the fabric of my shorts. I pressed the phone harder into my palm so that my hands would not move.

He stayed against her for another few seconds, one hand still inside the blouse, the other gripping her ass through the yellow saree and pulling her back into him. Her breathing had gone short. The small sounds she made were no longer only protest.

“Azad Sahab… ssss…ahhh”

Her hands stayed on the counter, but they were no longer pushing him away. When his fingers rolled her nipple again she pushed her chest into his palm instead of pulling back.

He took his hand out of the blouse. For a moment I thought he was finished. Instead he caught both her wrists, turned her, and walked her backward the short distance to the other wall of the kitchen—the one that faced the gap in the curtain more directly. He pressed her against it. The movement was firm but not rough. Her shoulders met the painted surface. He lifted her arms and pinned her wrists together above her head with one hand. The yellow saree shifted. The pallu, already down, hung loose at her side. The sleeveless blouse rose a little with the stretch of her arms. Through the gap in the curtain I could now see past Azad’s back to her front. Her armpits were bare and clean, the skin smooth from the parlour the day before. The low neck of the blouse had opened further with the angle of her arms. The soft upper curves of both breasts were fully visible, the fabric straining. Her face was turned toward me without her knowing it. Eyes half-closed, mouth slightly open, colour high on her cheeks and throat.

Azad stepped in close. His free hand went back inside the blouse at once, cupping her breast fully, thumb moving across the bare nipple. He lowered his head and kissed her. Not the earlier kiss on the neck. This one was on the mouth, open, deep. I could see the way his jaw moved. I could see her mouth open under his. For the first two seconds she stayed still. Then she kissed him back. Her head tilted. Her wrists stayed pinned above her head, but her body pressed forward into his. The sound of the kiss was wet and clear even through the curtain. His hand inside the blouse kept working, squeezing, lifting the weight of her breast, thumb circling the nipple until it stood tight against his skin. She made a low sound into his mouth and her hips shifted once against him.

He broke the kiss only far enough to speak against her lips. “You were telling me to stop.”

“I was…” Her voice was unsteady. She tried to turn her face, but he followed and kissed her again, slower this time, tongue sliding against hers. Her eyes had opened for a second when he spoke. I saw them. They were dark, unfocused, the same way they had looked in the hotel photographs he had deleted. She kissed him back harder. One of her legs moved, the yellow saree tightening across her thigh as she shifted her weight. His hand left her breast, slid down over the front of the blouse, and gripped her waist, pulling her hips forward so that she was flush against him. The kiss continued. Her pinned hands flexed once above her head. She did not try to pull them free.

When he finally drew back, her mouth stayed open for a second. Her lips were wet. Her chest rose and fell quickly under the blouse. He still held her wrists. He looked at her face, then let her arms down. She did not move away from the wall immediately. Her eyes stayed on him. Even from behind Azad’s shoulder I could see the change in them—the resistance that had been there at the start was gone. What remained was heat. She looked at him the way she had looked at the Paithani when he first handed it to her, except sharper. He had made her want it. The kitchen was small and I was ten feet away and she still looked at him like that.

He stepped back. She stayed against the wall for another breath, then pushed herself upright and reached for the pallu. Her hands were not quite steady. She began to draw it back over her shoulder. Azad turned toward the small fridge. As he passed her she put one hand flat on his chest, not hard, just enough to stop him for a second. The other hand finished settling the pallu. Her voice was low, still breathless, but the tone had changed. It was no longer only worry.

“Why do you always have to do this? Make me fall for it more and more…ufff.” she said. The complaint was there, but it sat under something else.

Azad looked down at the hand on his chest. He covered it with his own for a moment, then lifted it and kissed the inside of her wrist once, quick. “Because you like it.” He smiled, the same easy smile he had used at the door. “And because I love how you first resist and then stop telling me to stop as you start liking it, even though your son is just ten feet away..haha.”

She made a small sound that was almost a laugh and almost annoyance. “I did tell you to stop multiple times...”

“And then you got horny, so you gave up..haha.” He winked at her, open and unhurried, and turned to the fridge. He took the bottle of water, drank, and walked out past the curtain, shoulders relaxed, expression ordinary, as if he had only stepped in for water. Ma remained in the kitchen. I heard her set a vessel down harder than necessary. Then the steady sounds of cooking returned.

Through the gap I could still see her. She had both hands on the counter now. Her head was lowered, but when she lifted it for a second to reach for the spoon I saw her face clearly. The colour was still high on her cheeks. Her mouth was slightly swollen from the kiss. Her eyes, when they flicked once toward the curtain and then away, were not the eyes of a woman who had only been interrupted. They were bright. Restless. The same fire that had been there when Azad held her against the wall was still in them. He had left her like that—blouse resettled, pallu back in place, hands moving over the pot—and the want had not left her body.

I sat on the wooden seat with the phone dark in my hands. My cock was painfully hard against the front of my shorts. I had watched his hand inside her blouse, watched her armpits bare and clean when he raised her arms, watched her mouth open under his and then kiss him back, watched the way her hips had pressed forward while her wrists stayed pinned. I had seen the exact moment the worry about me left her face and something else took its place. The curtain was thin. The kitchen light was on. She had not looked toward me while it was happening, but she knew I was there. And she had still kissed him like that.

I did not move. I kept my breathing even and waited for the food to be ready, the image of her face after he walked out still clear behind my eyes.

By nine the food was ready. She served him first—a full plate of khichdi and dal with pickle—then made mine and set both on the folding table. She did not take her own share until we had both started eating. Azad ate without hurry. After a minute she pulled the remaining chair and sat opposite him, the pallu now pinned in place. The colour that had been on her face in the kitchen had settled, but it had not gone. When she reached for the water jug her hand was steady. Her eyes were not.

“The dal is tasty,” he said. “Better than the food they kept giving in Pune.”

“I am glad that you liked it..” she answered. She looked at him.

Then they spoke about the condition of the highway, a shop he needed to visit in Jogeshwari the next week, the price of cement, ordinary things. I kept my eyes on the plate. The kitchen was still in my head. Her wrists above her head. Her mouth open under his. The way she had kissed him back after the second protest and then looked at him with that heat still in her eyes when he walked out for water. She had patted his chest and complained, and he had winked. Now she sat across from him with the pallu pinned and her voice ordinary, and I could still see the difference.

When most of the food was gone she served herself a small portion and ate standing at the kitchen counter. Azad took two calls—one short about a pending payment, one longer about the rate of cement. After the second call he stretched, rolled his neck once, and looked at her.

“I should go,” he said. “It is late. You have had a long day.”

[Authorsunny]

Author’s Note

Posted a long update this time, with plenty of eroticism and bold moments. Hope you guys enjoy it!

The story has come a long way now, and with so many loyal followers and readers, I feel a greater responsibility to give each update the time and thought it deserves. Planning the next episodes and putting everything down takes time, especially as the story progresses. I am genuinely trying my best to keep the updates regular, though there may be occasional delays. Hope you guys understand and bear with me.

Also, please feel free to get in touch with me on TG: @SPD777

I'd genuinely love to connect with my readers, get to know you guys, hear your thoughts about the story and simply have some natural, casual conversations. And if you have any suggestions or ideas, feel free to share them here or drop me a message on TG.

Thank you so much for all the love, encouragement and support. It really means a lot!

More updates coming soon!

[wxxxx]

The ending of the update "Chapter 30 - New Day Part 2" (December 07, 2025)" was highly intense.

Readers are hoping to see an open, friendly relationship between Sunny and his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma. Sunny loves his mother more than anything else in his life, supporting her actions blindly and without question.

Mrs. Anjali herself tells her only son, Sunny:

"[ “I love you. You hear me? More than anyone. No matter who else is there, no matter what happens in this house, you are first. You will always be first. Do not forget that.” ]"

However, readers are quite upset by Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s behavior; after Sunny gifted her a new Samsung mobile phone—worth twenty-nine thousand rupees—she immediately set a screen lock on it with a new password. Given that only the two of them—Sunny and his mother—live in the house, readers feel it is inappropriate for a mother to lock her adult son out of her phone.

On behalf of the readers, we request the respected, thoughtful, creative, and realistic author, "Authorsunny," to consider this matter seriously; the readers simply cannot accept Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s decision to keep her new Samsung mobile phone screen-locked.

[mzafar]

The latest update is fantastic.

However, Sunny gifted a new Samsung mobile phone to his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma; shortly after receiving the gift, she set a password to lock the screen of the device. Readers are extremely upset by this behavior. While it is common for sons to use passwords to lock their own mobile screens, it is highly unusual for a mother to do so with a phone gifted to her by her only adult son.

Since Sunny is providing full support to his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, he has not disagreed with her on any matter.

Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma is behaving in a two-faced manner. Mrs. Anjali Sharma entered the flat late at night from the event and made Sunny stand outside and had sex with the landlord Azad for a long time, the next day, Sunny’s mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, send Sunny to go to a medical shop and buy an I-pill and a tube of Burnol cream, then Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma made Sunny sit in the kitchen for more than an hour wearing only a bra and panties and gave Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma a full body massage almost naked by Urban Company employee Kavita, Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma did not feel embarrassed at that time. Sunny accepts everything with a smile for the happiness of her mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma, never felt embarrassed.

Readers trust that the author, "Authorsunny," will take their concerns seriously. Readers simply cannot accept Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s decision to password-protect the screen of the Samsung mobile gifted to her by her son.

[Anubantu]

Vry nice romantic update

[wxxxx]

mzafar wrote:


The latest update is fantastic.

However, Sunny gifted a new Samsung mobile phone to his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma; shortly after receiving the gift, she set a password to lock the screen of the device. Readers are extremely upset by this behavior. While it is common for sons to use passwords to lock their own mobile screens, it is highly unusual for a mother to do so with a phone gifted to her by her only adult son.

Since Sunny is providing full support to his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, he has not disagreed with her on any matter.

Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma is behaving in a two-faced manner. Mrs. Anjali Sharma entered the flat late at night from the event and made Sunny stand outside and had sex with the landlord Azad for a long time, the next day, Sunny’s mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, send Sunny to go to a medical shop and buy an I-pill and a tube of Burnol cream, then Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma made Sunny sit in the kitchen for more than an hour wearing only a bra and panties and gave Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma a full body massage almost naked by Urban Company employee Kavita, Sunny's mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma did not feel embarrassed at that time. Sunny accepts everything with a smile for the happiness of her mother Mrs. Anjali Sharma, never felt embarrassed.

Readers trust that the author, "Authorsunny," will take their concerns seriously. Readers simply cannot accept Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s decision to password-protect the screen of the Samsung mobile gifted to her by her son.
-------------------------------------

wxxxx wrote:

I completely agree with mzafar.

[Leo Arya]

Their romance lit up the atmosphere... Carry on brother.....
Waiting for the next part.

[saka1981]

It seems Sunny has started accepting everything his mother does. He appears to feel jealous only when Azad kisses his mother or touches her breasts. However, I am still unable to understand Sunny's state of mind. Is he a slave to his lust, or has he become obsessed with his mother's beauty?

Thank you, author, for giving us such a lengthy update.

[wxxxx]

Both the readers and Sunny—Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s son—are keen to keep a close watch on her new Samsung mobile phone. They share an intense desire to monitor the device.

From Sunny’s point of view, the situation unfolds as follows:

"[ She set the phone down and rubbed her eyes once. “He will be here by seven-thirty. I should bathe before that. The oil from morning is still on me.”

She stood, one hand going automatically to the small of her back, then dropping when she realised the pull was lighter. “It is actually better today. I can feel it.” She took a clean towel from the almirah and went inside the bathroom.

She pushed the door until the weak latch caught. I heard the bucket filling, the mug striking the floor, water running over skin. The new phone lay face-down where she had left it. I picked it up. The lock screen appeared at once. I tried the old four-digit code she had used for years. The phone shook and refused. I placed it back exactly as it had been. ]"

The readers make an earnest appeal to the thoughtful, creative, and pragmatic author, "Authorsunny," to find a way—by any means necessary—to provide Sunny with the password for Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s new Samsung mobile.

[Paty@123]

First of all the writer of this story is cross roads how to take and in which direction story has tobe taken, reason why same theme is repeated, the theme is son is waiting outside and clearly Anjali participating in Romance with Azad or in sex with Azad, or other wise Anjali talking with Azad in the phone, whatever it maybe just asking the son to wait separately and participating in erotic scenes whether it is romance or massaging little semi nude or nude and I think no shyness, the son helplessly get erected and ejaculated, I think In that position, if any body whether it is son or father irrespective of any will either mastrubate or ejaculate because of mentally erotic condition, so I request the writer to make the story run with faster, I don't say erotic scenes should not be there, but story should also run plz, I think writer will understand and do positively, and also Do not make the Son as helpless and already in the beginning episodes of story itself you have narrated son's charector as willing and helping his mother directly in her affair, Now it is the time where he has to show his decent and make them to have their activities somewhere else other than their flat, or he has to go out and seek an accomodation and looking for his interest, otherwise he will go for his mental distruction, let us see what is there in writer's mind, I would like to say the updates are not coming as fast in the beginning,

[Waseem990]

continue update  

[wxxxx]

Paty@123 wrote:

First of all the writer of this story is cross roads how to take and in which direction story has tobe taken, reason why same theme is repeated, the theme is son is waiting outside and clearly Anjali participating in Romance with Azad or in sex with Azad, or other wise Anjali talking with Azad in the phone, whatever it maybe just asking the son to wait separately and participating in erotic scenes whether it is romance or massaging little semi nude or nude and I think no shyness, the son helplessly get erected and ejaculated, I think In that position, if any body whether it is son or father irrespective of any will either mastrubate or ejaculate because of mentally erotic condition, so I request the writer to make the story run with faster, I don't say erotic scenes should not be there, but story should also run plz, I think writer will understand and do positively, and also Do not make the Son as helpless and already in the beginning episodes of story itself you have narrated son's charector as willing and helping his mother directly in her affair, Now it is the time where he has to show his decent and make them to have their activities somewhere else other than their flat, or he has to go out and seek an accomodation and looking for his interest, otherwise he will go for his mental distruction, let us see what is there in writer's mind, I would like to say the updates are not coming as fast in the beginning,
----------------------------------

wxxxx wrote:

The author is steering the story in the right direction. It centers on a lower-middle-class family: Sunny and his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, who live in a one-room flat—a setting where, unlike in upper-class or middle-class households, maintaining privacy is not possible. Readers want to experience the story through Sunny’s perspective (POV). They clearly appreciate the author’s thoughtfulness and creativity.

[Aragon]

Author portrayed Azad is a dominating character.. But we also witness his caring side for Anjali..
Again a great update... Waiting for the next