Hi Naughties,
This is my second story for this website and also in my life from the learnings of my previous story i'm writing this story hope u guys like it.
I will be writing both stories in parallel based on the readers interest and comments i will prioritize which one to focus more.
Read My Other Story : Nivetha (Nivi) - Power and Submissions of working wife
Hope you guys support both of my stories stories.
--------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer:
As u read the title of the story this story involves strong incest theme. This story will be a slow burn erotica dont expect sex scenes early. but i will make sure this feels erotic as much as possible.
--------------------------------------------------
The bedroom was the only room with air-conditioning, a small mercy Rajan had installed two years ago when his promotion came through.
The unit hummed steadily above the wardrobe, keeping the temperature just low enough that the night didn't feel like punishment.
Two double beds were pushed together in the centre, covered by a single thin cotton bedsheet that everyone fought over in their sleep.
Indhu lay on her back in a modest, full-sleeved, ankle-length nightie of soft peach cotton.
It had small pink flowers printed along the border and a high neckline, exactly the kind Rajan approved of.
The sleeves ended at her wrists, the hem brushed her ankles even when she stretched, and there was no danger of anything showing that shouldn't.
She had bought six of them in different pastel shades the day he told her, “Wear decent ones at home also, Indhu.
People talk.” She had smiled, nodded, and worn them ever since.
Still, the fabric was the thinnest cotton she could find, almost weightless, and in the cool air from the AC it clung softly to the curve of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts, the long line of her thighs.
Rajan never noticed the difference.
He only saw sleeves and length.
Karthik slept facing her, one arm dbangd across her stomach exactly the way he had done since childhood.
The weight of his forearm was heavier now, muscle and bone instead of little-boy softness, but the gesture was the same.
Indhu never moved it away.
She liked the innocent way he still searched for her in his sleep.
On Karthik's far side, Rajan breathed slow and even.
He had come home at eight-forty, greeted the neighbours politely, helped an old lady carry her provisions to the lift, then sat with the children and asked about their day in his calm, courteous voice.
Outside these walls he was still the same Rajan everyone respected: responsible, soft-spoken, quick to help.
Only inside this bedroom, when the lights went out, did the quiet fear show itself.
He had tried to pull her close earlier, a hesitant hand on her shoulder, a murmured “Indhu…”.
She had shifted away without anger, and he had let it go with the small, wounded silence she now knew by heart.
Age had stolen his confidence between the sheets, and the loss had slowly turned into suspicion: Why did she take such care of her skin? Why did the new nighties, however modest, fit her so well? Indhu understood.
She no longer fought it.
She simply wore what he allowed and kept the small rebellions no one could see: the trimmed hair beneath the cotton, the faint jasmine oil she rubbed into her skin after every bath, the secret pride when the mirror showed her a woman who still turned heads at thirty-six.
Leka slept curled on the far edge, facing the wall, her own full-length nightie twisted slightly at the waist.
She and Karthik had bickered again over dinner: something trivial, something loud.
Indhu had scolded them both, told them to behave like adults, and they had fallen into sulky silence.
The AC clicked softly, blowing cool air across Indhu's covered arms.
Karthik moved closer in his sleep, forehead brushing the high neckline of her nightie, breath warm against the hollow of her throat.
The contact was familiar, innocent, comforting.
Tomorrow morning Rajan would leave for Madurai: three nights, possibly four.
One less body in the bed.
One less pair of eyes watching what she wore, how she moved, how carefully she smiled.
Indhu let her eyes drift shut.
The room stayed quiet except for the steady hum of the AC and the soft, even breathing of the son who still held her like she was the safest place in the world.
Just another June night.
Nothing, yet, felt different.
This is my second story for this website and also in my life from the learnings of my previous story i'm writing this story hope u guys like it.
I will be writing both stories in parallel based on the readers interest and comments i will prioritize which one to focus more.
Read My Other Story : Nivetha (Nivi) - Power and Submissions of working wife
Hope you guys support both of my stories stories.
--------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer:
As u read the title of the story this story involves strong incest theme. This story will be a slow burn erotica dont expect sex scenes early. but i will make sure this feels erotic as much as possible.
--------------------------------------------------
Not just a Mother Anymore
The bedroom was the only room with air-conditioning, a small mercy Rajan had installed two years ago when his promotion came through.
The unit hummed steadily above the wardrobe, keeping the temperature just low enough that the night didn't feel like punishment.
Two double beds were pushed together in the centre, covered by a single thin cotton bedsheet that everyone fought over in their sleep.
Indhu lay on her back in a modest, full-sleeved, ankle-length nightie of soft peach cotton.
It had small pink flowers printed along the border and a high neckline, exactly the kind Rajan approved of.
The sleeves ended at her wrists, the hem brushed her ankles even when she stretched, and there was no danger of anything showing that shouldn't.
She had bought six of them in different pastel shades the day he told her, “Wear decent ones at home also, Indhu.
People talk.” She had smiled, nodded, and worn them ever since.
Still, the fabric was the thinnest cotton she could find, almost weightless, and in the cool air from the AC it clung softly to the curve of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts, the long line of her thighs.
Rajan never noticed the difference.
He only saw sleeves and length.
Karthik slept facing her, one arm dbangd across her stomach exactly the way he had done since childhood.
The weight of his forearm was heavier now, muscle and bone instead of little-boy softness, but the gesture was the same.
Indhu never moved it away.
She liked the innocent way he still searched for her in his sleep.
On Karthik's far side, Rajan breathed slow and even.
He had come home at eight-forty, greeted the neighbours politely, helped an old lady carry her provisions to the lift, then sat with the children and asked about their day in his calm, courteous voice.
Outside these walls he was still the same Rajan everyone respected: responsible, soft-spoken, quick to help.
Only inside this bedroom, when the lights went out, did the quiet fear show itself.
He had tried to pull her close earlier, a hesitant hand on her shoulder, a murmured “Indhu…”.
She had shifted away without anger, and he had let it go with the small, wounded silence she now knew by heart.
Age had stolen his confidence between the sheets, and the loss had slowly turned into suspicion: Why did she take such care of her skin? Why did the new nighties, however modest, fit her so well? Indhu understood.
She no longer fought it.
She simply wore what he allowed and kept the small rebellions no one could see: the trimmed hair beneath the cotton, the faint jasmine oil she rubbed into her skin after every bath, the secret pride when the mirror showed her a woman who still turned heads at thirty-six.
Leka slept curled on the far edge, facing the wall, her own full-length nightie twisted slightly at the waist.
She and Karthik had bickered again over dinner: something trivial, something loud.
Indhu had scolded them both, told them to behave like adults, and they had fallen into sulky silence.
The AC clicked softly, blowing cool air across Indhu's covered arms.
Karthik moved closer in his sleep, forehead brushing the high neckline of her nightie, breath warm against the hollow of her throat.
The contact was familiar, innocent, comforting.
Tomorrow morning Rajan would leave for Madurai: three nights, possibly four.
One less body in the bed.
One less pair of eyes watching what she wore, how she moved, how carefully she smiled.
Indhu let her eyes drift shut.
The room stayed quiet except for the steady hum of the AC and the soft, even breathing of the son who still held her like she was the safest place in the world.
Just another June night.
Nothing, yet, felt different.
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