04-11-2026, 01:29 PM
Eagerly waiting for update. When Azad saheb left the house immediately or after fucking to Anjali infront of Sunny. Waiting for update.
My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read)Running
04-11-2026, 04:10 PM
Chapter 30 – Sunday Night
7 December 2025
She set her plate down. The movement was slow. She wiped her hands on the edge of her saree and came back to the table. She did not sit. She stood beside his chair, close enough that the yellow cotton brushed his arm.
“You said you wanted ice cream,” she said. “Naturals on the service road. The one that stays open till eleven. You mentioned the tender coconut last time.”
He looked up at her. “I said when I was in the car. I did not say we have to go tonight.”
“You have been driving since four.” Her voice was quiet. She was not looking at me. “You ate hotel food for two days. The room is hot. Ice cream would make you feel good.”
Azad studied her face. I watched from the wooden seat. She was not asking the way she asked about tea or about whether he wanted paneer. Her hand rested on the back of his chair. Her weight had shifted closer to him. The same restlessness that had been in her eyes when he left the kitchen was still there, under the ordinary words. She wanted to leave the flat. She wanted the car. She wanted whatever had started against the wall to continue somewhere the curtain was not thin and I was not ten feet away.
“You want to go,” he said. It was not a question.
“I am only saying the shop is open.” She met his eyes. A small smile touched her mouth, the kind that did not reach the rest of her face. “If you are tired, we can stay. I will make more tea.”
He held the look for a second longer than necessary. Then he nodded once. “Ten minutes. Then we go.”
She turned toward me. The smile she gave me was the ordinary one. “Beta, do you want any? I can bring it back.”
“No. I have eaten enough.”
“All right. I will take the keys with me, just in case you feel sleepy then I need not wake you up. You have office tomorrow!”
I nodded. I had seen it. She had made him say yes. She had stood close, used the heat of the room and the long drive and the ordinary excuse of ice cream, and she had got what she wanted. The kitchen had not been enough. She was taking him out so that it could continue.
Azad stood. As she reached for her small purse he placed his hand on her waist, fingers spread wide over the yellow saree, and left it there. She did not move it away. They stepped out onto the landing together.
The uncle from the opposite flat was just unlocking his door. He straightened when he saw them. His eyes went first to the hand on her waist, then to the low neck of the blouse, then to Azad’s face.
“Namaste, Azad bhai.”
“Namaste. All well with the water on your side today?” Azad asked. His hand remained openly where it was, thumb resting just above the knot of the saree. “Or still coming late?”
“Sometimes only, bhai. They are working on the main line.” The uncle’s gaze moved again, slower, over the open neck of Ma’s blouse and the way Azad’s fingers sat on her body. He looked away quickly. “Going out at this time? All well?.”
“Yes yes, going out for ice cream,” Azad said. He smiled easily. His hand did not shift. “She has been inside the whole day. The room is hot..”
“Yes, bhai. Its hot this year.” The uncle nodded, but his eyes flicked once more to the place where Azad’s palm rested on the yellow cotton, and to the upper curve of her breasts above the blouse, before he stepped back into his flat and closed the door harder than necessary.
A husband and wife from the second floor came down the stairs at the same moment. The man nodded. “Azad bhai. How are you?”
“All good, all good” Azad answered. His fingers tightened once on Ma’s waist, a small, visible adjustment that pulled her a half-step closer.
The woman looked directly at Ma’s sleeveless blouse, at the soft swell above the neckline, and at the hand that was not leaving her waist. She gave a smile that did not reach her eyes.
On the first-floor landing two women who had been standing and talking fell silent the moment Azad and Ma appeared. Their expressions changed at once. One of them—the corner-flat woman—looked at the hand on Ma’s waist, then at the low cut of the blouse, then upward. Her mouth tightened. Ma and Azad walked to the ground floor.
“Look at that,” she said whispering, but not quietly enough. “Hand on her waist in the open. Blouse cut so the whole chest is showing. No shame left.”
The other woman made a small sound. “Kalank. That is the word. She walks like this every day now. Friday night the whole floor heard what was happening upstairs. Now he takes her out at nine-thirty with his hand sitting on her like that. And she lets him.”
At the gate the white sedan was parked under the tube light. Azad opened the driver’s door himself and got in. The watchman came hurrying from his plastic stool and opened the passenger side. Ma gathered the saree carefully and sat. The door closed. The engine started. The car moved out of the lane.
I stood at the open door until the sound of the car had faded past the flyover. The landing was empty again. The two women on the first floor had gone back inside, but their voices still carried for a few seconds more, lower, repeating the same sentences about the hand on her waist and the blouse. The uncle opposite had shut his door hard enough that the sound reached me. I pulled ours closed and put the latch on. The room was quiet. The fan turned. The two AC boxes stood where they had been all day. On the bed the plastic-covered Paithani caught the light from the tube. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it. The border was heavy even through the wrapping. Maroon and gold.
My cock was still hard. It had not gone down properly since the kitchen. The spank through the yellow saree, the small moan she had tried to swallow, the way his hand had moved inside her blouse while I sat on the other side of the curtain with my phone dark in my hand. I had listened and stayed still. Now the flat was empty and the hardness sat in my shorts the same way it had this morning behind the curtain while Kavita’s hands moved over her oiled back. I knew I should stay. I knew the sensible thing was to lie down, put the phone on silent, and wait for the sound of the car that would not return until late. But the thought would not settle. They had gone for ice cream. Naturals on the service road. That was what she had said. That was what he had agreed to. But I had seen her face after he walked out of the kitchen. The colour still high. The mouth slightly swollen. The eyes bright and restless. She had stood at the dinner table and made him take her out. She had wanted more. And she had got it.
I wondered whether the ice cream was real or only the excuse that let them leave house. I wondered what they would do once the cups were empty. I wondered whether I would ever see any of it, or whether it would all happen behind another closed door the way it had on Friday night, while I stood on the landing and listened and came in my shorts. The excitement sat under the guilt the same way it had all day. I wanted to know. I wanted to see.
I waited two minutes. The room stayed quiet. No message. No sound of the car turning back into the lane. I stood, took the bike keys from the hook, the helmet from the chair, and went down. The watchman was back on his stool. He looked at me but did not speak. I started the bike and rode out the same way the sedan had gone.
Naturals was on the service road just before the highway climb. The parking strip in front was half full under the tube lights. I slowed when I saw the shop at the far end. I parked the bike two shops away, killed the engine, and stayed in the shadow of a closed hardware store. From there I could see the glass front of the parlour and the two tables outside. I looked for them inside. The counter was bright. A few people were ordering. I could not see the yellow saree. I could not see the grey shirt. For a moment I thought they had not come at all. I thought the ice cream had only been the words she used so that they could leave the flat and go somewhere else. The possibility sat in my chest and made the bike feel heavier under me.
Then a boy came out of the main door carrying two cups. He walked straight toward the white sedan. I recognised the car. I could not hear anything from the distance. But the cups were clear in his hands. He reached the driver’s side and handed them through the window. I saw a hand take them. The hand belonged to the grey shirt. The confirmation was small and ordinary and still it landed hard. They were here. They had come for ice cream. The excuse was real, at least for these few minutes.
I waited. Five minutes. The car did not move. I kept the helmet on and the engine off. My phone stayed dark in my pocket. I watched the sedan and tried to keep my breathing ordinary. Inside the car she would be eating. He would be watching her the way he had watched her at the table. The same heat that had been in her eyes against the kitchen wall would still be there, quieter now, sitting under the tube light. She had asked for this. The kitchen had started it. Now she was sitting with him in the open, eating ice cream.
Then the car moved. I started the bike and followed at a distance. They turned left at the first signal. For a second I thought they were heading back toward Andheri. The panic rose fast. If they reached home early and I was not there, what would I say. I had the keys. She had said she would take them so that she would not have to wake me. But if the flat was empty when they returned, the story would not hold. I was about to take the left exit myself and cut back toward the building when the sedan did not turn. It kept going. It took the right onto the Western Expressway. I followed.
Sunday night. The rush was low. It was almost ten. The white sedan stayed in the left lane. I kept two cars between us. Once a truck cut in and I lost them for a minute. I accelerated, checked the mirrors, and found the tail-lights again near the next flyover. My hands were tight on the grips. The wind was warm. I kept thinking of the kitchen wall. Her wrists above her head. Her mouth open under his. The way she had looked at him when he stepped away—the resistance gone, the heat still there. She had wanted more. And now they were on the highway and I was following and I did not know where they were going.
They exited left onto the service road near the Jogeshwari signal. I followed. The sedan slowed, then turned into a side lane. I stayed back. The building at the end of the lane had a gate and a watchman in a chair. The white sedan stopped outside. The watchman stood, saluted, and opened the gate without being asked. The car went inside. I rode past once, slowly, and looked at the name on the board above the gate. It was the same group name as our building in Andheri. The letters were the same. The colour was the same. This was the other building. The one in Jogeshwari that Ma had spoken about. Azad’s other building.
I could not stop. The watchman had already seen the bike. If I turned around and parked, he would ask what I was doing. I rode to the end of the lane, turned, and came back past the gate once more. The sedan was inside. I could not see them. The gate had closed. I kept going. The road back toward Andheri felt longer than it had on the way out. My chest was heavy. She was out with him again. Not in the flat. Not on the landing where I could hear. In his other building. In a room I would not see. The positive sat next to the weight and did not cancel it. She had preferred to go out instead of doing it in the flat in front of me or asking me to leave. That was something. She had not sent me out the way she had on Friday night. Instead she had taken him tonight. But the rest of it—the part I wanted to see, the part that had started against the kitchen wall and had not finished—was happening somewhere else. And I had followed them all the way here only to watch the gate close.
I reached our building in Andheri at ten-thirty. I climbed the stairs. The first-floor landing was quiet. The corner-flat door was closed. I unlocked our flat, went inside, and put the latch on.
I lay down on the bed. The sheet was cool. I knew she would not come early. The building in Jogeshwari was not a place you went for ten minutes of ice cream and then drove back. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep did not come. I had followed them. I had wanted to see. Even when the panic rose about reaching home early, the larger part of me had wanted the car to keep going so that I could know where they went. I had wanted the confirmation that the kitchen had not been enough for her. I had wanted to imagine what was happening now in that other building—the yellow saree on the floor, the blouse open, his hands on her the way they had been against the wall, her mouth open the way it had been when she kissed him back. The thought made me hard again. I did not touch myself. I only lay there and let the images move. The guilt was still there. It sat next to the arousal and did not cancel it. I had accepted the relationship. I had told her I would not turn every evening into a courtroom. But the acceptance had not stopped the looking. It had not stopped the following. It had not stopped the way my body reacted when I thought of him inside her while I was ten feet away or few kilometres away. The cuck part of me wanted to see it. Not only hear it through a door. Not only imagine it from the sounds. I wanted to be in the room. I wanted to watch the way her face changed when he pushed into her. I wanted to see the same heat that had been in her eyes against the kitchen wall when she was under him. The thought was ugly and clear and it would not leave. I had followed them tonight because of it. I had stayed on the bike outside Naturals because of it. I had kept the distance on the highway because of it. And now I was lying on the bed we shared and the hardness was back and the images would not stop.
I opened her Instagram. The followers had reached four hundred. The four photographs from the Taj were still at the top. I scrolled through the comments. There were more than twenty. Some were ordinary. “Beautiful couple.” “Looking gorgeous.” “Congratulations.” She had replied to a few of those. Short lines. “Thank you.” “So sweet” I could not tell whether it was her or Kunal, her instagram account manager. The replies were polite and did not sound like her voice. Other comments were not polite. One said the blouse was too deep for a family function. Another was shorter and uglier. “Hot slut in that blouse.” She had not replied to that one. Or Kunal had not. I looked at the photographs again. The deep V. The wired bra visible at the edges. Azad’s hand low on her waist in the couple shot. Her face turned toward him. I imagined what they were doing now in the Jogeshwari building. The images sat behind my eyes and would not leave. My cock was hard against the sheet. I did not touch it. I only scrolled and looked and let the thoughts move.
A suggestion appeared at the side of the screen. Nair ma’am’s account. Private. The profile photograph was a candid shot. She was in a dark blue body hugging one piece sleeveless dress. She was standing somewhere with old buildings behind her. Europe, probably. The light was soft. She was not looking at the camera. I stared at the photograph for a few seconds. Tomorrow was Monday. Menon sir’s last day. The farewell she had arranged. The talk on the floor had said her name was in the running for the chair. I did not know whether it was true. I only knew that she had called me into her cabin, put her hands on my shoulders, and leaned close enough that the rust blouse had opened. I clicked the follow button. The request went. Her account stayed private. I locked the phone and set it face down on the mattress.
The clock moved past eleven-thirty. No sound of the car. No message. I closed my eyes again. Sleep came in pieces.
At two I turned onto my side and opened my eyes. The other half of the bed was empty. I checked the time on the phone. Two-oh-seven. She had not returned. I lay still for a minute and listened. The fan. The distant sound of a scooter on the main road. Nothing else. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come back. It did, slowly. The images of the kitchen wall and the Jogeshwari gate stayed behind my eyes until they thinned.
7 December 2025
She set her plate down. The movement was slow. She wiped her hands on the edge of her saree and came back to the table. She did not sit. She stood beside his chair, close enough that the yellow cotton brushed his arm.
“You said you wanted ice cream,” she said. “Naturals on the service road. The one that stays open till eleven. You mentioned the tender coconut last time.”
He looked up at her. “I said when I was in the car. I did not say we have to go tonight.”
“You have been driving since four.” Her voice was quiet. She was not looking at me. “You ate hotel food for two days. The room is hot. Ice cream would make you feel good.”
Azad studied her face. I watched from the wooden seat. She was not asking the way she asked about tea or about whether he wanted paneer. Her hand rested on the back of his chair. Her weight had shifted closer to him. The same restlessness that had been in her eyes when he left the kitchen was still there, under the ordinary words. She wanted to leave the flat. She wanted the car. She wanted whatever had started against the wall to continue somewhere the curtain was not thin and I was not ten feet away.
“You want to go,” he said. It was not a question.
“I am only saying the shop is open.” She met his eyes. A small smile touched her mouth, the kind that did not reach the rest of her face. “If you are tired, we can stay. I will make more tea.”
He held the look for a second longer than necessary. Then he nodded once. “Ten minutes. Then we go.”
She turned toward me. The smile she gave me was the ordinary one. “Beta, do you want any? I can bring it back.”
“No. I have eaten enough.”
“All right. I will take the keys with me, just in case you feel sleepy then I need not wake you up. You have office tomorrow!”
I nodded. I had seen it. She had made him say yes. She had stood close, used the heat of the room and the long drive and the ordinary excuse of ice cream, and she had got what she wanted. The kitchen had not been enough. She was taking him out so that it could continue.
Azad stood. As she reached for her small purse he placed his hand on her waist, fingers spread wide over the yellow saree, and left it there. She did not move it away. They stepped out onto the landing together.
The uncle from the opposite flat was just unlocking his door. He straightened when he saw them. His eyes went first to the hand on her waist, then to the low neck of the blouse, then to Azad’s face.
“Namaste, Azad bhai.”
“Namaste. All well with the water on your side today?” Azad asked. His hand remained openly where it was, thumb resting just above the knot of the saree. “Or still coming late?”
“Sometimes only, bhai. They are working on the main line.” The uncle’s gaze moved again, slower, over the open neck of Ma’s blouse and the way Azad’s fingers sat on her body. He looked away quickly. “Going out at this time? All well?.”
“Yes yes, going out for ice cream,” Azad said. He smiled easily. His hand did not shift. “She has been inside the whole day. The room is hot..”
“Yes, bhai. Its hot this year.” The uncle nodded, but his eyes flicked once more to the place where Azad’s palm rested on the yellow cotton, and to the upper curve of her breasts above the blouse, before he stepped back into his flat and closed the door harder than necessary.
A husband and wife from the second floor came down the stairs at the same moment. The man nodded. “Azad bhai. How are you?”
“All good, all good” Azad answered. His fingers tightened once on Ma’s waist, a small, visible adjustment that pulled her a half-step closer.
The woman looked directly at Ma’s sleeveless blouse, at the soft swell above the neckline, and at the hand that was not leaving her waist. She gave a smile that did not reach her eyes.
On the first-floor landing two women who had been standing and talking fell silent the moment Azad and Ma appeared. Their expressions changed at once. One of them—the corner-flat woman—looked at the hand on Ma’s waist, then at the low cut of the blouse, then upward. Her mouth tightened. Ma and Azad walked to the ground floor.
“Look at that,” she said whispering, but not quietly enough. “Hand on her waist in the open. Blouse cut so the whole chest is showing. No shame left.”
The other woman made a small sound. “Kalank. That is the word. She walks like this every day now. Friday night the whole floor heard what was happening upstairs. Now he takes her out at nine-thirty with his hand sitting on her like that. And she lets him.”
At the gate the white sedan was parked under the tube light. Azad opened the driver’s door himself and got in. The watchman came hurrying from his plastic stool and opened the passenger side. Ma gathered the saree carefully and sat. The door closed. The engine started. The car moved out of the lane.
I stood at the open door until the sound of the car had faded past the flyover. The landing was empty again. The two women on the first floor had gone back inside, but their voices still carried for a few seconds more, lower, repeating the same sentences about the hand on her waist and the blouse. The uncle opposite had shut his door hard enough that the sound reached me. I pulled ours closed and put the latch on. The room was quiet. The fan turned. The two AC boxes stood where they had been all day. On the bed the plastic-covered Paithani caught the light from the tube. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it. The border was heavy even through the wrapping. Maroon and gold.
My cock was still hard. It had not gone down properly since the kitchen. The spank through the yellow saree, the small moan she had tried to swallow, the way his hand had moved inside her blouse while I sat on the other side of the curtain with my phone dark in my hand. I had listened and stayed still. Now the flat was empty and the hardness sat in my shorts the same way it had this morning behind the curtain while Kavita’s hands moved over her oiled back. I knew I should stay. I knew the sensible thing was to lie down, put the phone on silent, and wait for the sound of the car that would not return until late. But the thought would not settle. They had gone for ice cream. Naturals on the service road. That was what she had said. That was what he had agreed to. But I had seen her face after he walked out of the kitchen. The colour still high. The mouth slightly swollen. The eyes bright and restless. She had stood at the dinner table and made him take her out. She had wanted more. And she had got it.
I wondered whether the ice cream was real or only the excuse that let them leave house. I wondered what they would do once the cups were empty. I wondered whether I would ever see any of it, or whether it would all happen behind another closed door the way it had on Friday night, while I stood on the landing and listened and came in my shorts. The excitement sat under the guilt the same way it had all day. I wanted to know. I wanted to see.
I waited two minutes. The room stayed quiet. No message. No sound of the car turning back into the lane. I stood, took the bike keys from the hook, the helmet from the chair, and went down. The watchman was back on his stool. He looked at me but did not speak. I started the bike and rode out the same way the sedan had gone.
Naturals was on the service road just before the highway climb. The parking strip in front was half full under the tube lights. I slowed when I saw the shop at the far end. I parked the bike two shops away, killed the engine, and stayed in the shadow of a closed hardware store. From there I could see the glass front of the parlour and the two tables outside. I looked for them inside. The counter was bright. A few people were ordering. I could not see the yellow saree. I could not see the grey shirt. For a moment I thought they had not come at all. I thought the ice cream had only been the words she used so that they could leave the flat and go somewhere else. The possibility sat in my chest and made the bike feel heavier under me.
Then a boy came out of the main door carrying two cups. He walked straight toward the white sedan. I recognised the car. I could not hear anything from the distance. But the cups were clear in his hands. He reached the driver’s side and handed them through the window. I saw a hand take them. The hand belonged to the grey shirt. The confirmation was small and ordinary and still it landed hard. They were here. They had come for ice cream. The excuse was real, at least for these few minutes.
I waited. Five minutes. The car did not move. I kept the helmet on and the engine off. My phone stayed dark in my pocket. I watched the sedan and tried to keep my breathing ordinary. Inside the car she would be eating. He would be watching her the way he had watched her at the table. The same heat that had been in her eyes against the kitchen wall would still be there, quieter now, sitting under the tube light. She had asked for this. The kitchen had started it. Now she was sitting with him in the open, eating ice cream.
Then the car moved. I started the bike and followed at a distance. They turned left at the first signal. For a second I thought they were heading back toward Andheri. The panic rose fast. If they reached home early and I was not there, what would I say. I had the keys. She had said she would take them so that she would not have to wake me. But if the flat was empty when they returned, the story would not hold. I was about to take the left exit myself and cut back toward the building when the sedan did not turn. It kept going. It took the right onto the Western Expressway. I followed.
Sunday night. The rush was low. It was almost ten. The white sedan stayed in the left lane. I kept two cars between us. Once a truck cut in and I lost them for a minute. I accelerated, checked the mirrors, and found the tail-lights again near the next flyover. My hands were tight on the grips. The wind was warm. I kept thinking of the kitchen wall. Her wrists above her head. Her mouth open under his. The way she had looked at him when he stepped away—the resistance gone, the heat still there. She had wanted more. And now they were on the highway and I was following and I did not know where they were going.
They exited left onto the service road near the Jogeshwari signal. I followed. The sedan slowed, then turned into a side lane. I stayed back. The building at the end of the lane had a gate and a watchman in a chair. The white sedan stopped outside. The watchman stood, saluted, and opened the gate without being asked. The car went inside. I rode past once, slowly, and looked at the name on the board above the gate. It was the same group name as our building in Andheri. The letters were the same. The colour was the same. This was the other building. The one in Jogeshwari that Ma had spoken about. Azad’s other building.
I could not stop. The watchman had already seen the bike. If I turned around and parked, he would ask what I was doing. I rode to the end of the lane, turned, and came back past the gate once more. The sedan was inside. I could not see them. The gate had closed. I kept going. The road back toward Andheri felt longer than it had on the way out. My chest was heavy. She was out with him again. Not in the flat. Not on the landing where I could hear. In his other building. In a room I would not see. The positive sat next to the weight and did not cancel it. She had preferred to go out instead of doing it in the flat in front of me or asking me to leave. That was something. She had not sent me out the way she had on Friday night. Instead she had taken him tonight. But the rest of it—the part I wanted to see, the part that had started against the kitchen wall and had not finished—was happening somewhere else. And I had followed them all the way here only to watch the gate close.
I reached our building in Andheri at ten-thirty. I climbed the stairs. The first-floor landing was quiet. The corner-flat door was closed. I unlocked our flat, went inside, and put the latch on.
I lay down on the bed. The sheet was cool. I knew she would not come early. The building in Jogeshwari was not a place you went for ten minutes of ice cream and then drove back. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep did not come. I had followed them. I had wanted to see. Even when the panic rose about reaching home early, the larger part of me had wanted the car to keep going so that I could know where they went. I had wanted the confirmation that the kitchen had not been enough for her. I had wanted to imagine what was happening now in that other building—the yellow saree on the floor, the blouse open, his hands on her the way they had been against the wall, her mouth open the way it had been when she kissed him back. The thought made me hard again. I did not touch myself. I only lay there and let the images move. The guilt was still there. It sat next to the arousal and did not cancel it. I had accepted the relationship. I had told her I would not turn every evening into a courtroom. But the acceptance had not stopped the looking. It had not stopped the following. It had not stopped the way my body reacted when I thought of him inside her while I was ten feet away or few kilometres away. The cuck part of me wanted to see it. Not only hear it through a door. Not only imagine it from the sounds. I wanted to be in the room. I wanted to watch the way her face changed when he pushed into her. I wanted to see the same heat that had been in her eyes against the kitchen wall when she was under him. The thought was ugly and clear and it would not leave. I had followed them tonight because of it. I had stayed on the bike outside Naturals because of it. I had kept the distance on the highway because of it. And now I was lying on the bed we shared and the hardness was back and the images would not stop.
I opened her Instagram. The followers had reached four hundred. The four photographs from the Taj were still at the top. I scrolled through the comments. There were more than twenty. Some were ordinary. “Beautiful couple.” “Looking gorgeous.” “Congratulations.” She had replied to a few of those. Short lines. “Thank you.” “So sweet” I could not tell whether it was her or Kunal, her instagram account manager. The replies were polite and did not sound like her voice. Other comments were not polite. One said the blouse was too deep for a family function. Another was shorter and uglier. “Hot slut in that blouse.” She had not replied to that one. Or Kunal had not. I looked at the photographs again. The deep V. The wired bra visible at the edges. Azad’s hand low on her waist in the couple shot. Her face turned toward him. I imagined what they were doing now in the Jogeshwari building. The images sat behind my eyes and would not leave. My cock was hard against the sheet. I did not touch it. I only scrolled and looked and let the thoughts move.
A suggestion appeared at the side of the screen. Nair ma’am’s account. Private. The profile photograph was a candid shot. She was in a dark blue body hugging one piece sleeveless dress. She was standing somewhere with old buildings behind her. Europe, probably. The light was soft. She was not looking at the camera. I stared at the photograph for a few seconds. Tomorrow was Monday. Menon sir’s last day. The farewell she had arranged. The talk on the floor had said her name was in the running for the chair. I did not know whether it was true. I only knew that she had called me into her cabin, put her hands on my shoulders, and leaned close enough that the rust blouse had opened. I clicked the follow button. The request went. Her account stayed private. I locked the phone and set it face down on the mattress.
The clock moved past eleven-thirty. No sound of the car. No message. I closed my eyes again. Sleep came in pieces.
At two I turned onto my side and opened my eyes. The other half of the bed was empty. I checked the time on the phone. Two-oh-seven. She had not returned. I lay still for a minute and listened. The fan. The distant sound of a scooter on the main road. Nothing else. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come back. It did, slowly. The images of the kitchen wall and the Jogeshwari gate stayed behind my eyes until they thinned.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/images/bootbb/collapse_collapsed.png)
04-11-2026, 09:34 PM
slow burn is my favourite. but am a bit disapointed that Sunny is going thru immense internal conflicts..till now none other person has reached him to provide him the emotional balance he needed as his mom is drifting away in.her new world ...must Sunny die alone taking his sufferings with him ? i wonder his state of mind...
04-11-2026, 10:26 PM
Nice Update Brother. Your Skills Are Unimaginable. The Way You're Teasing Us Readers Just The Way Azad And Anjali Are Teasing Sunny
It's Amazing. Please Add A Good Mom-Son Conversation In The Next Update. And Try Inserting Some Pics And GIFs.
It's Amazing. Please Add A Good Mom-Son Conversation In The Next Update. And Try Inserting Some Pics And GIFs.
05-11-2026, 11:07 AM
Share my povs :
1. When Anjali comes back to her which excuse she will give to sunny?
2. Does sunny able to find what was happened in jogeshowri apartment?
3. Sunny may find solace at Mrs. Nair's arm.. Probably we will witness another couple.
1. When Anjali comes back to her which excuse she will give to sunny?
2. Does sunny able to find what was happened in jogeshowri apartment?
3. Sunny may find solace at Mrs. Nair's arm.. Probably we will witness another couple.
05-11-2026, 11:16 AM
Sunny’s mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, left the house after mentioning to the landlord, Mr. Azad, that they would go out to have some ice cream; she then headed to Mr. Azad’s building in Jogeshwari. Consequently, Sunny—Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s son—was deprived of witnessing any hardcore sexual scenes, leaving both him and the readers feeling utterly stifled.
05-11-2026, 11:26 AM
The readers, along with Sunny, wish to witness a sexual encounter between Sunny’s mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, and their landlord, Mr. Azad. However, because the landlord, Mr. Azad, leaves his home in Jogeshwari—ostensibly to go get some ice cream—the readers and Sunny (Mrs. Anjali Sharma’s son) are deprived of the opportunity to witness such an encounter.
05-11-2026, 11:39 AM
Readers have been deprived of Sunny’s point of view (POV) because his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, and their landlord, Mr. Azad, went to a residence in Jogeshwari to engage in sexual activity. The readers would like to see Mr. Azad come to Sunny’s flat and have sex with Mrs. Anjali Sharma in the bedroom, while Sunny—watching the sexual encounter between his mother and the landlord from the kitchen—reaches the point of ejaculation.
05-11-2026, 01:36 PM
It looks like both the mother and son have become overwhelmed by their sexual desires. Even when Azad says he is going downstairs, Anjali makes an excuse about getting some ice and rushes outside to have sex with him. Sunny follows them secretly to see what they are up to. Lust is driving them to do things without thinking about the consequences.
05-11-2026, 06:18 PM
may be she should try to make out in front of sunny itself...
this time ok but next time make her say to azad that she did not feel the kink without sunny hence she wants its only when he is present around..
or
may be she could come and explain to him what happened later...
this time ok but next time make her say to azad that she did not feel the kink without sunny hence she wants its only when he is present around..
or
may be she could come and explain to him what happened later...
05-11-2026, 06:47 PM
Azad is having a crooked mentality, for which Anjali is submitting, and the son Sunny donot know what he is doing and ultimately he suffering with lust, it is natural after all he is a human being
06-11-2026, 01:31 PM
Another interesting update... Eagerly waiting for the next part..
07-11-2026, 11:53 AM
Waiting for the reaction of Sunny when mother comeback to the home
08-11-2026, 01:50 PM
Chapter 31 - Farewell Day
December 08, 2025
The grey of the morning had already settled on the grill when I opened my eyes. The other half of the bed was no longer empty.
She was there. On her side, facing the wall, the way she slept when the day had been long. The hem of her nighty sat across the upper curve of her thigh. The silver payal was still on that ankle. The small white stones caught the weak light from the grill and gave a thin shine every time the fan turned the air across them.
I stayed still. Her breathing was even, the soft snore that only came after she had been properly tired. I turned my head slowly on the pillow and looked at the clock on the folding table. 6:17. She had come back sometime after two. I had not heard the door. Or I had heard it and the body had chosen not to wake fully. The latch had been put on from inside. Her small purse was on the chair near the almirah, the strap hanging over the back. The yellow saree she had worn when she left was folded once and left on the seat itself, not hung. The blouse was on top of it. The cotton looked softer than it had at eight in the evening. One side had turned inside out.
I looked at her again. The nighty was thin. The morning line from the grill cut across her shoulder and the side of her breast. The upper curve was bare above the neckline. No bra strap. The skin there still held a faint shine, as if lotion or oil had been put on earlier and not fully wiped. A small dark mark sat on the left side of her throat, just above the collarbone. Not the old bite from Friday. A newer one. Smaller. The colour was still deep. It would fade by afternoon if she covered it with the chain, but right now it was clear against the wheatish skin.
Her hair was loose. Some of it had stuck to the side of her neck with damp. The ends looked darker, as if they had been wet and then dried against the pillow. The perfume he had given her was still on her, but under it was something else. A warmer smell. Soap that was not ours. And under that, fainter, the smell that stayed on skin after bodies had been close for a long time.
I was hard.
It had happened before I fully woke. The shorts were already tight. I stayed on my side and did not move my hips. The sheet covered me to the waist. If she turned, she would see only the ordinary shape of a son who had slept. I watched the rise and fall of her shoulder. The nighty had slipped further on that side. The full weight of one breast rested against the thin cloth. The dark point of the nipple was clear through it. She shifted once in her sleep. The breast moved with her. The cloth dragged across it and then settled again. My cock thickened against the front of the shorts. I pressed the heel of my hand against it once, slow, through the sheet, and then took the hand away. The pressure stayed.
She had come back quietly. She had not woken me. She had changed into the nighty in the dark or in the bathroom with the light off. The yellow saree and the blouse were left on the chair the way a person leaves clothes when the only thought is to lie down. The new mark on her throat was still dark. She had not tried to hide it with powder or by turning the other way.
I closed my eyes again. The hardness did not go. It sat there while her breathing stayed even. At 7:20 she made a small sound in her throat and turned onto her back. The nighty climbed higher. One knee bent. The sheet slid down to her waist. Both breasts were clear under the thin cloth now. The nipples had softened in sleep but were still darker than the rest of her skin. The upper curves were bare where the neckline had loosened. I watched for another minute. Then I got up the way a person gets up when the body has decided it will not sleep again.
I went to the bathroom and closed the door as far as the weak latch allowed. The cold water on my face did not help. I stayed inside longer than I needed to. When I came out she was still on her back. I dressed in the corner near the almirah, formal pants first then the cotton shirt. I did not look at the bed again until I was ready.
At 7:50 she opened her eyes.
“You’re up early,” she said. Her voice was thick with sleep. She pulled the sheet up without looking down at herself. The nighty stayed where it was under the sheet.
“Couldn’t sleep after seven. I’ll leave early. Menon sir’s farewell is planned today. Some work needs to be done before the office work starts.”
She sat up slowly. One hand went to the small of her back and stayed there for a second. The nighty gaped at the front. I saw the inner curve of both breasts and the soft line between them before she adjusted the cloth. She did not hurry. The mark on her throat was still visible above the gold chain.
“You came back late,” I said.
“Oh, not much. actually, we went for a long drive after ice cream, the weather was nice outside, and Azad Sahab also wanted to just relax. I would have been back within an hour or so, but you were already asleep when I returned.” She looked at the clock. “You should eat something before you go. I can make tea.”
“I’ll eat at the office Ma. You sleep more if you want.”
She nodded. The movement made the nighty shift again. She pulled it higher on one shoulder without thinking. The strap was not there. The skin of the shoulder was bare. I looked at the mark on her throat once more, then at the open hair, then at the floor.
“The phone is good,” she said. “I used it in the car. The screen is clear even in the dark. Thank you again, beta.”
“It’s all right Ma.”
I picked up the bag. At the door I looked back once. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand on her lower back. She watched me the way she watched when she wanted to say something and then decided the morning was too early for it.
“Go,” she said. “Don’t get late for the farewell work.”
I went down the stairs, started the bike, and rode out. At the first signal, the lie that Ma spoke about last night came back to me. Why did she lie? Was she too uncomfortable to tell the truth? I saw the car enter the Jogeshwari building; she was not back even after 2:00, and still, she was bold enough to say that she returned within an hour. How much further would she fall for Azad? When I reached office, my cock was still half-hard inside the formal pants.
The fourth floor was quiet when I swiped my card. Only two people were already at their desks, laptops open, heads down. I sat, opened mine, and checked the farewell list once more. Conference room 3 from three to five. Cake confirmed with facilities. Card with most of the signatures from our floor and Menon’s old cluster. Nothing missing that could be fixed before ten.
At 9:15 I walked toward Nair ma’am’s cabin. As HR manager hers was the only one on the floor without transparent glass. A person standing outside would not know what was happening inside. The only way to confirm she was there was the thin line of light that fell through the small, smudged rectangle set into the door. I knocked on the frame.
“Come in.”
Her voice came sharp from inside.
I opened the door and stepped in. The air-conditioning was colder here than on the floor. She was not behind the table. She stood near the side cabinet, one hand on a stack of papers, the other holding her phone to her ear. She had not looked up yet.
A black pencil skirt sat high on her waist and ended well above the knee. The fabric was smooth and tight enough that the line of her hip and the start of her thigh showed clearly when she shifted her weight. A white fitted shirt was tucked into it. The top three buttons were open. The inner curves of both breasts were visible above the white cloth, the skin smooth, a thin gold chain resting in the hollow between them. No blouse. No pallu. Her legs were bare from mid-thigh down, smooth, the colour even under the cabin light. Black heels. The lemon-and-iron perfume was stronger.
She ended the call and set the phone down harder than necessary.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Morning.” She did not smile. Her eyes stayed on the papers for a second. “The farewell is at three. You have the card?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most of the floor has signed. Menon sir’s old cluster as well.”
She nodded once, still not looking at me fully. One hand pushed the papers aside. Under them was a smaller stack — not office printouts. Personal bills, a courier receipt, two envelopes with handwritten addresses. She picked up the top envelope, turned it over, and made a short sound in her throat.
“This should have gone yesterday,” she said. “The courier cutoff was six. Amit used to handle these before he left. He knew which ones could wait and which ones could not. Now I am standing here at nine-fifteen checking addresses like a clerk.”
She set the envelope down and finally looked at me. The open shirt shifted with the movement. The chain caught the light. I kept my eyes on her face.
She then walked past me to the sofa against the far wall. The skirt tightened across her seat when she moved. She sat, crossed one leg over the other, and the hem rose another inch. The smooth skin of her thigh was clear from knee to where the skirt ended. She pointed to the single chair opposite the sofa.
“Sit. I want to go through the order once.”
I sat. The distance was less than it looked. From this angle the open buttons of the shirt showed more. The inner curves pressed together when she leaned forward to pick up a notepad from the low table. She did not adjust the shirt.
“First the room,” she said. “Confirmed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Three to five. Facilities has the cake and snacks. I sent you the quotes yesterday.”
“I saw.” She wrote one line, then stopped. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned, and set it face down. “Second. The card. You said most names are there. Whose are missing?”
“Two from the upper floor who were in meetings all Friday. I can catch them before three.”
“Do that.” She looked at me for a second longer than the list needed. The skirt had ridden higher on the crossed leg. She did not pull it down. “You have done the arrangements cleanly so far. The room, the cake, the card. I noticed.”
Her hand rested on the arm of the sofa. The gold bangle touched the leather. She did not move it.
Before she could continue, the landline on her table rang. She stood, walked to it, and picked up. The skirt shifted again. From the sofa I could see the full length of her legs when she turned.
“Yes… no, I already told them yesterday… Amit is not here… then find someone else.” She cut the call and set the receiver down. Her mouth was tight. She looked at the pantry extension list pinned near the phone, pressed the button, and waited. No one answered. She pressed it again. Still nothing. A short breath left her.
“Useless,” she said. “I have been asking for coffee since eight-forty. No one picks up.”
I stood.
“I can bring it for you, ma’am.”
She looked at me. For a second she seemed about to refuse. Then she only nodded once, already turning back to the papers on the cabinet.
“No sugar. No milk. Make it strong.”
I went out, walked to the pantry, and made the coffee the way she had said. Black. Strong. When I returned the cabin door was still open. She was on the sofa again, one leg crossed, the skirt high, reading something on her phone. I set the cup on the low table in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said. She did not look up immediately. When she did, her eyes stayed on my face for a moment. “I think we are prepared for the fairwell. I will check if Mike can attend the same. See you later then. Good job.”
“All right, ma’am.”
“Don’t look so serious. It is only a farewell. You have already done the difficult part.”
I stood. At the door she spoke again without turning.
I went back to the cluster. Rohan looked up from his screen.
“Nair ma'am again?”
“Yes, Farewell timing. Three o’clock. She wanted the final check.”
He nodded and returned to his work. I opened the module that was due and stared at the first page until the words stayed words.
Lunch was at the pantry table near the window. Sameer pulled a chair and sat with a packet of rolls. Rohan tore his roti and looked at me.
“So. Farewell at three. You are the one running it?”
“Nair ma’am asked. Amit is still on leave, so...”
Sameer made a sound that was not quite a laugh.
“Amit. That boy used to stay in her cabin till seven sometimes. Everyone saw. Files in his hand, but the door would be closed. She would call him for one small thing and he would still be there when the floor emptied. Two weeks now he has been gone. Some people are saying the leave was not only fever.”
Rohan glanced at the pantry door and lowered his voice.
“Don’t start. She is HR. She knows the rules better than any of us.”
“Rules,” Sameer said. “He came from the operations floor. Ordinary executive. She saw him in one meeting, asked for him by name the next week, and within a month he was her personal executive. After that he stopped eating with others. Stopped talking about weekend plans. Became a private person. Within another month he had the new iPhone. The Pro Max. Tours started. Pune, Bangalore, once to Singapore for three days. All on her calendar.”
Another voice joined from the next table. Vikram, who usually stayed quiet.
“The good part is also true,” he said. “She is the most senior person on this floor with a direct line to Mike. Being in her good books has weight. Amit’s mails started getting answered faster. His leaves got approved without questions. People noticed the change in how he carried himself. Straighter. Quieter. Like he knew which doors would open if he knocked. He even got excellent appraisals.”
Sameer shook his head.
“And the other part? He used to carry her bags down to the basement. Laptop, files, sometimes the bigger one she brings on Mondays. He wanted to move back to operations after six months. Told two people. Then suddenly the talk stopped. There are rumours she made him end it with his girlfriend also. The girl worked in accounts. One week she was visiting him at lunch, the next week she was gone from the building. Amit looked like he had not slept for days after that. Now he is on leave and no one knows if he is coming back or if the leave will keep extending until he finds another company.”
Rohan looked at me.
“She has Mike’s ear. Everyone knows that much. If something needs to disappear from a file or a complaint needs to stay on a desk, it stays. You cannot take a problem about her to anyone on this floor and expect it to travel upward cleanly.”
Sameer pointed his roll at me.
“Our boy is already inside the room. Taking Amit's place won't take much time. Wait and watch. Interesting times. Better to step back now than later when the spiral is tighter.”
I closed the tiffin. The food had no taste left. The black skirt, the open white shirt, the smooth thigh when she crossed her leg, the way she had said Amit’s name while holding personal envelopes — all of it sat next to the sentences and made a shape I did not want. I did not believe every crude version. I also could not say I had imagined the way the shirt had opened when she leaned or the way she had looked at me after I brought the coffee. Both things could be true. That was the part that would not settle.
---
The farewell started at three. Conference room 3 was already set. Cake on the side table. Paper plates. Water bottles. The card on the main table. Menon sir arrived at 3:10. He looked smaller without the cabin around him. People stood in a loose circle. Nair ma’am spoke first. Short. Professional. She thanked him for the years and said the floor would miss the way he kept meetings to the point. She was in the same black skirt and white shirt. The top buttons were still open. When she turned to hand Mike sir the microphone the chain moved against her skin. Mike sir said two lines. Sinha sir said a few words. I handed the card when she looked at me. Menon sir opened it, read the first page, and nodded once. He did not cry. He shook hands with the people nearest to him and cut the cake. The room filled with the ordinary sound of paper plates and low talk.
The strange thing was that there was no public acknowledgement of the efforts that I put into managing the event; she never once said anything about my involvement, which was both hurtful and confusing, and I worried about whether I had made any mistake in arrangements.
I went back to my desk. I checked the time. It was almost 5:15. The farewell had ended, the leftover plates were already in the pantry bin, and the floor was thinning the way it always did after four-thirty. I started packing my bag. Laptop, charger, the card holder with the remaining signatures I still had to file. At 5:20 the phone buzzed.
Report to cabin by 6:30. Need to discuss about the event.
I read it twice. 6:30 was almost an hour from now. Even if the discussion lasted only fifteen minutes, I would be leaving after seven. The Western Expressway at that time did not move. What usually took forty minutes would take ninety. I almost never stayed past six. Sinha sir finished his calls by five-forty and left. Even Menon sir, on the days he had late client reviews, wrapped them before six so people could still catch the train or the early traffic window. No one in our vertical scheduled anything after six unless a server was down.
This was the thing people already said about Nair ma’am. If she took Menon’s chair, the floor would feel it. She did not watch the clock the way the others did. She is a taskmaster.
I put the phone face down and opened the module again. The words did not stay. At 5:50 I checked google maps on my phone. Already red. By 6:20 it would be worse. I stayed anyway.
The floor emptied almost completely by six. Lights went off in clusters. The pantry coffee machine gurgled once and fell silent. At 6:28 I walked to her cabin. The small smudged glass showed a line of light. I knocked once and opened the door.
She was on the sofa. One heel was off, lying on its side near the low table. Her legs were crossed high; the bare thigh was clear under the cabin light from the knee to where the skirt ended. A thin file and a calculator sat on the table in front of her. She looked up when the door opened.
“Come in. Close it.”
I closed it.
“You handled the farewell cleanly,” she said. “The room was ready. The cake was on time. The card had the names that mattered. Menon noticed. I noticed. Most people would have missed one of the three and then made excuses. You did not.”
“It was only coordination, ma’am.”
“Coordination is what most people fail at when no one is watching the list.” She uncrossed her legs and sat forward. The skirt rode higher. “Amit will be on leave for some more weeks. The farewell work is finished, but there are other important things that used to sit with him. If you are willing, I can shift some of that to you. It would mean staying a little later on some days. Not every day. Only when something is stuck and I need it completed before morning.”
She watched my face after she finished. The smile was small. It sat in the way her eyes stayed on mine a second longer than the sentence needed. One hand rested on her knee. The skirt had not been pulled down.
“I can try, ma’am,” I said.
“Good.” She stood and walked to the cabinet. The black skirt shifted across her hips as she moved. She opened the lower drawer, took out a slim rectangular bar still in its imported wrapper, and set it on the low table in front of me.
The packaging was matte black with thin gold lettering in a European language. 85% cocoa. The kind sold in airport duty-free or high-end stores, not in the office pantry. The seal was unbroken.
“For the farewell work,” she said. “Take it.”
No other explanation. She simply closed the drawer and remained standing, one hand resting on the cabinet edge, the open white shirt and the smooth line of her thigh still clear under the cabin light.
“You can go now Sunny.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The chocolate bar sat in my shirt pocket on the ride home. I did not take it out in the lift. I did not take it out on the bike. I rode home with the weight of it against my chest and the image of the open white shirt, the bare thigh when she sat forward.
December 08, 2025
The grey of the morning had already settled on the grill when I opened my eyes. The other half of the bed was no longer empty.
She was there. On her side, facing the wall, the way she slept when the day had been long. The hem of her nighty sat across the upper curve of her thigh. The silver payal was still on that ankle. The small white stones caught the weak light from the grill and gave a thin shine every time the fan turned the air across them.
I stayed still. Her breathing was even, the soft snore that only came after she had been properly tired. I turned my head slowly on the pillow and looked at the clock on the folding table. 6:17. She had come back sometime after two. I had not heard the door. Or I had heard it and the body had chosen not to wake fully. The latch had been put on from inside. Her small purse was on the chair near the almirah, the strap hanging over the back. The yellow saree she had worn when she left was folded once and left on the seat itself, not hung. The blouse was on top of it. The cotton looked softer than it had at eight in the evening. One side had turned inside out.
I looked at her again. The nighty was thin. The morning line from the grill cut across her shoulder and the side of her breast. The upper curve was bare above the neckline. No bra strap. The skin there still held a faint shine, as if lotion or oil had been put on earlier and not fully wiped. A small dark mark sat on the left side of her throat, just above the collarbone. Not the old bite from Friday. A newer one. Smaller. The colour was still deep. It would fade by afternoon if she covered it with the chain, but right now it was clear against the wheatish skin.
Her hair was loose. Some of it had stuck to the side of her neck with damp. The ends looked darker, as if they had been wet and then dried against the pillow. The perfume he had given her was still on her, but under it was something else. A warmer smell. Soap that was not ours. And under that, fainter, the smell that stayed on skin after bodies had been close for a long time.
I was hard.
It had happened before I fully woke. The shorts were already tight. I stayed on my side and did not move my hips. The sheet covered me to the waist. If she turned, she would see only the ordinary shape of a son who had slept. I watched the rise and fall of her shoulder. The nighty had slipped further on that side. The full weight of one breast rested against the thin cloth. The dark point of the nipple was clear through it. She shifted once in her sleep. The breast moved with her. The cloth dragged across it and then settled again. My cock thickened against the front of the shorts. I pressed the heel of my hand against it once, slow, through the sheet, and then took the hand away. The pressure stayed.
She had come back quietly. She had not woken me. She had changed into the nighty in the dark or in the bathroom with the light off. The yellow saree and the blouse were left on the chair the way a person leaves clothes when the only thought is to lie down. The new mark on her throat was still dark. She had not tried to hide it with powder or by turning the other way.
I closed my eyes again. The hardness did not go. It sat there while her breathing stayed even. At 7:20 she made a small sound in her throat and turned onto her back. The nighty climbed higher. One knee bent. The sheet slid down to her waist. Both breasts were clear under the thin cloth now. The nipples had softened in sleep but were still darker than the rest of her skin. The upper curves were bare where the neckline had loosened. I watched for another minute. Then I got up the way a person gets up when the body has decided it will not sleep again.
I went to the bathroom and closed the door as far as the weak latch allowed. The cold water on my face did not help. I stayed inside longer than I needed to. When I came out she was still on her back. I dressed in the corner near the almirah, formal pants first then the cotton shirt. I did not look at the bed again until I was ready.
At 7:50 she opened her eyes.
“You’re up early,” she said. Her voice was thick with sleep. She pulled the sheet up without looking down at herself. The nighty stayed where it was under the sheet.
“Couldn’t sleep after seven. I’ll leave early. Menon sir’s farewell is planned today. Some work needs to be done before the office work starts.”
She sat up slowly. One hand went to the small of her back and stayed there for a second. The nighty gaped at the front. I saw the inner curve of both breasts and the soft line between them before she adjusted the cloth. She did not hurry. The mark on her throat was still visible above the gold chain.
“You came back late,” I said.
“Oh, not much. actually, we went for a long drive after ice cream, the weather was nice outside, and Azad Sahab also wanted to just relax. I would have been back within an hour or so, but you were already asleep when I returned.” She looked at the clock. “You should eat something before you go. I can make tea.”
“I’ll eat at the office Ma. You sleep more if you want.”
She nodded. The movement made the nighty shift again. She pulled it higher on one shoulder without thinking. The strap was not there. The skin of the shoulder was bare. I looked at the mark on her throat once more, then at the open hair, then at the floor.
“The phone is good,” she said. “I used it in the car. The screen is clear even in the dark. Thank you again, beta.”
“It’s all right Ma.”
I picked up the bag. At the door I looked back once. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand on her lower back. She watched me the way she watched when she wanted to say something and then decided the morning was too early for it.
“Go,” she said. “Don’t get late for the farewell work.”
I went down the stairs, started the bike, and rode out. At the first signal, the lie that Ma spoke about last night came back to me. Why did she lie? Was she too uncomfortable to tell the truth? I saw the car enter the Jogeshwari building; she was not back even after 2:00, and still, she was bold enough to say that she returned within an hour. How much further would she fall for Azad? When I reached office, my cock was still half-hard inside the formal pants.
The fourth floor was quiet when I swiped my card. Only two people were already at their desks, laptops open, heads down. I sat, opened mine, and checked the farewell list once more. Conference room 3 from three to five. Cake confirmed with facilities. Card with most of the signatures from our floor and Menon’s old cluster. Nothing missing that could be fixed before ten.
At 9:15 I walked toward Nair ma’am’s cabin. As HR manager hers was the only one on the floor without transparent glass. A person standing outside would not know what was happening inside. The only way to confirm she was there was the thin line of light that fell through the small, smudged rectangle set into the door. I knocked on the frame.
“Come in.”
Her voice came sharp from inside.
I opened the door and stepped in. The air-conditioning was colder here than on the floor. She was not behind the table. She stood near the side cabinet, one hand on a stack of papers, the other holding her phone to her ear. She had not looked up yet.
A black pencil skirt sat high on her waist and ended well above the knee. The fabric was smooth and tight enough that the line of her hip and the start of her thigh showed clearly when she shifted her weight. A white fitted shirt was tucked into it. The top three buttons were open. The inner curves of both breasts were visible above the white cloth, the skin smooth, a thin gold chain resting in the hollow between them. No blouse. No pallu. Her legs were bare from mid-thigh down, smooth, the colour even under the cabin light. Black heels. The lemon-and-iron perfume was stronger.
She ended the call and set the phone down harder than necessary.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Morning.” She did not smile. Her eyes stayed on the papers for a second. “The farewell is at three. You have the card?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most of the floor has signed. Menon sir’s old cluster as well.”
She nodded once, still not looking at me fully. One hand pushed the papers aside. Under them was a smaller stack — not office printouts. Personal bills, a courier receipt, two envelopes with handwritten addresses. She picked up the top envelope, turned it over, and made a short sound in her throat.
“This should have gone yesterday,” she said. “The courier cutoff was six. Amit used to handle these before he left. He knew which ones could wait and which ones could not. Now I am standing here at nine-fifteen checking addresses like a clerk.”
She set the envelope down and finally looked at me. The open shirt shifted with the movement. The chain caught the light. I kept my eyes on her face.
She then walked past me to the sofa against the far wall. The skirt tightened across her seat when she moved. She sat, crossed one leg over the other, and the hem rose another inch. The smooth skin of her thigh was clear from knee to where the skirt ended. She pointed to the single chair opposite the sofa.
“Sit. I want to go through the order once.”
I sat. The distance was less than it looked. From this angle the open buttons of the shirt showed more. The inner curves pressed together when she leaned forward to pick up a notepad from the low table. She did not adjust the shirt.
“First the room,” she said. “Confirmed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Three to five. Facilities has the cake and snacks. I sent you the quotes yesterday.”
“I saw.” She wrote one line, then stopped. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned, and set it face down. “Second. The card. You said most names are there. Whose are missing?”
“Two from the upper floor who were in meetings all Friday. I can catch them before three.”
“Do that.” She looked at me for a second longer than the list needed. The skirt had ridden higher on the crossed leg. She did not pull it down. “You have done the arrangements cleanly so far. The room, the cake, the card. I noticed.”
Her hand rested on the arm of the sofa. The gold bangle touched the leather. She did not move it.
Before she could continue, the landline on her table rang. She stood, walked to it, and picked up. The skirt shifted again. From the sofa I could see the full length of her legs when she turned.
“Yes… no, I already told them yesterday… Amit is not here… then find someone else.” She cut the call and set the receiver down. Her mouth was tight. She looked at the pantry extension list pinned near the phone, pressed the button, and waited. No one answered. She pressed it again. Still nothing. A short breath left her.
“Useless,” she said. “I have been asking for coffee since eight-forty. No one picks up.”
I stood.
“I can bring it for you, ma’am.”
She looked at me. For a second she seemed about to refuse. Then she only nodded once, already turning back to the papers on the cabinet.
“No sugar. No milk. Make it strong.”
I went out, walked to the pantry, and made the coffee the way she had said. Black. Strong. When I returned the cabin door was still open. She was on the sofa again, one leg crossed, the skirt high, reading something on her phone. I set the cup on the low table in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said. She did not look up immediately. When she did, her eyes stayed on my face for a moment. “I think we are prepared for the fairwell. I will check if Mike can attend the same. See you later then. Good job.”
“All right, ma’am.”
“Don’t look so serious. It is only a farewell. You have already done the difficult part.”
I stood. At the door she spoke again without turning.
I went back to the cluster. Rohan looked up from his screen.
“Nair ma'am again?”
“Yes, Farewell timing. Three o’clock. She wanted the final check.”
He nodded and returned to his work. I opened the module that was due and stared at the first page until the words stayed words.
Lunch was at the pantry table near the window. Sameer pulled a chair and sat with a packet of rolls. Rohan tore his roti and looked at me.
“So. Farewell at three. You are the one running it?”
“Nair ma’am asked. Amit is still on leave, so...”
Sameer made a sound that was not quite a laugh.
“Amit. That boy used to stay in her cabin till seven sometimes. Everyone saw. Files in his hand, but the door would be closed. She would call him for one small thing and he would still be there when the floor emptied. Two weeks now he has been gone. Some people are saying the leave was not only fever.”
Rohan glanced at the pantry door and lowered his voice.
“Don’t start. She is HR. She knows the rules better than any of us.”
“Rules,” Sameer said. “He came from the operations floor. Ordinary executive. She saw him in one meeting, asked for him by name the next week, and within a month he was her personal executive. After that he stopped eating with others. Stopped talking about weekend plans. Became a private person. Within another month he had the new iPhone. The Pro Max. Tours started. Pune, Bangalore, once to Singapore for three days. All on her calendar.”
Another voice joined from the next table. Vikram, who usually stayed quiet.
“The good part is also true,” he said. “She is the most senior person on this floor with a direct line to Mike. Being in her good books has weight. Amit’s mails started getting answered faster. His leaves got approved without questions. People noticed the change in how he carried himself. Straighter. Quieter. Like he knew which doors would open if he knocked. He even got excellent appraisals.”
Sameer shook his head.
“And the other part? He used to carry her bags down to the basement. Laptop, files, sometimes the bigger one she brings on Mondays. He wanted to move back to operations after six months. Told two people. Then suddenly the talk stopped. There are rumours she made him end it with his girlfriend also. The girl worked in accounts. One week she was visiting him at lunch, the next week she was gone from the building. Amit looked like he had not slept for days after that. Now he is on leave and no one knows if he is coming back or if the leave will keep extending until he finds another company.”
Rohan looked at me.
“She has Mike’s ear. Everyone knows that much. If something needs to disappear from a file or a complaint needs to stay on a desk, it stays. You cannot take a problem about her to anyone on this floor and expect it to travel upward cleanly.”
Sameer pointed his roll at me.
“Our boy is already inside the room. Taking Amit's place won't take much time. Wait and watch. Interesting times. Better to step back now than later when the spiral is tighter.”
I closed the tiffin. The food had no taste left. The black skirt, the open white shirt, the smooth thigh when she crossed her leg, the way she had said Amit’s name while holding personal envelopes — all of it sat next to the sentences and made a shape I did not want. I did not believe every crude version. I also could not say I had imagined the way the shirt had opened when she leaned or the way she had looked at me after I brought the coffee. Both things could be true. That was the part that would not settle.
---
The farewell started at three. Conference room 3 was already set. Cake on the side table. Paper plates. Water bottles. The card on the main table. Menon sir arrived at 3:10. He looked smaller without the cabin around him. People stood in a loose circle. Nair ma’am spoke first. Short. Professional. She thanked him for the years and said the floor would miss the way he kept meetings to the point. She was in the same black skirt and white shirt. The top buttons were still open. When she turned to hand Mike sir the microphone the chain moved against her skin. Mike sir said two lines. Sinha sir said a few words. I handed the card when she looked at me. Menon sir opened it, read the first page, and nodded once. He did not cry. He shook hands with the people nearest to him and cut the cake. The room filled with the ordinary sound of paper plates and low talk.
The strange thing was that there was no public acknowledgement of the efforts that I put into managing the event; she never once said anything about my involvement, which was both hurtful and confusing, and I worried about whether I had made any mistake in arrangements.
I went back to my desk. I checked the time. It was almost 5:15. The farewell had ended, the leftover plates were already in the pantry bin, and the floor was thinning the way it always did after four-thirty. I started packing my bag. Laptop, charger, the card holder with the remaining signatures I still had to file. At 5:20 the phone buzzed.
Report to cabin by 6:30. Need to discuss about the event.
I read it twice. 6:30 was almost an hour from now. Even if the discussion lasted only fifteen minutes, I would be leaving after seven. The Western Expressway at that time did not move. What usually took forty minutes would take ninety. I almost never stayed past six. Sinha sir finished his calls by five-forty and left. Even Menon sir, on the days he had late client reviews, wrapped them before six so people could still catch the train or the early traffic window. No one in our vertical scheduled anything after six unless a server was down.
This was the thing people already said about Nair ma’am. If she took Menon’s chair, the floor would feel it. She did not watch the clock the way the others did. She is a taskmaster.
I put the phone face down and opened the module again. The words did not stay. At 5:50 I checked google maps on my phone. Already red. By 6:20 it would be worse. I stayed anyway.
The floor emptied almost completely by six. Lights went off in clusters. The pantry coffee machine gurgled once and fell silent. At 6:28 I walked to her cabin. The small smudged glass showed a line of light. I knocked once and opened the door.
She was on the sofa. One heel was off, lying on its side near the low table. Her legs were crossed high; the bare thigh was clear under the cabin light from the knee to where the skirt ended. A thin file and a calculator sat on the table in front of her. She looked up when the door opened.
“Come in. Close it.”
I closed it.
“You handled the farewell cleanly,” she said. “The room was ready. The cake was on time. The card had the names that mattered. Menon noticed. I noticed. Most people would have missed one of the three and then made excuses. You did not.”
“It was only coordination, ma’am.”
“Coordination is what most people fail at when no one is watching the list.” She uncrossed her legs and sat forward. The skirt rode higher. “Amit will be on leave for some more weeks. The farewell work is finished, but there are other important things that used to sit with him. If you are willing, I can shift some of that to you. It would mean staying a little later on some days. Not every day. Only when something is stuck and I need it completed before morning.”
She watched my face after she finished. The smile was small. It sat in the way her eyes stayed on mine a second longer than the sentence needed. One hand rested on her knee. The skirt had not been pulled down.
“I can try, ma’am,” I said.
“Good.” She stood and walked to the cabinet. The black skirt shifted across her hips as she moved. She opened the lower drawer, took out a slim rectangular bar still in its imported wrapper, and set it on the low table in front of me.
The packaging was matte black with thin gold lettering in a European language. 85% cocoa. The kind sold in airport duty-free or high-end stores, not in the office pantry. The seal was unbroken.
“For the farewell work,” she said. “Take it.”
No other explanation. She simply closed the drawer and remained standing, one hand resting on the cabinet edge, the open white shirt and the smooth line of her thigh still clear under the cabin light.
“You can go now Sunny.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The chocolate bar sat in my shirt pocket on the ride home. I did not take it out in the lift. I did not take it out on the bike. I rode home with the weight of it against my chest and the image of the open white shirt, the bare thigh when she sat forward.
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