05-12-2025, 10:35 PM
(This post was last modified: 26-12-2025, 01:35 PM by nivithenaughty. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
PART 6
The bottom-wear boutique bags swung heavy between them as they stepped back into the blazing street. Indhu's mind was still spinning from the trial-room mirror, from the way the rose-gold shimmer had turned her legs into something out of a dream, from the quiet, certain way Karthik had chosen every single piece as though he had studied her body for years. She opened her mouth to ask again about the money, about how he knew her size so perfectly, about everything, but he was already moving.
His hand closed around hers again (no hesitation this time) and he pulled her deeper into the narrow lane where the big chain stores faded into quieter, more expensive boutiques. The crowd thinned; the air smelled of jasmine and new fabric instead of diesel.
Indhu's heart beat faster with every step.
“Karthik… we already bought so much. And the money—”
He glanced back, eyes bright, that new grown-up steadiness in his jaw.
“One more stop. The best one.”
The words weren't a request. They were a promise.
She should have protested, should have reminded him they had spent nearly everything, should have taken charge the way mothers do. Instead she let him lead, her smaller hand swallowed in his, pulse fluttering at how easily she followed.
Why am I letting an eighteen-year-old boy pull me around like this? I'm the mother. I decide. But the truth was simpler and more confusing: it felt good. Safe. Exciting. Like someone finally saw her and wanted her to have everything she had quietly wished for.
They stopped in front of a corner boutique with soft lighting and a discreet gold sign: LUNA – Modern Women's Wear. No loud banners, just elegant mannequins in silky tops and luxurious nightwear.
Indhu's heart stuttered. This place looked expensive. Really expensive.
“Karthik… this is—”
He squeezed her hand once, firm.
“Trust me. Come.”
Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of sandalwood. Soft music, only two other customers on the entire floor. A saleswoman in a neat saree greeted them with a polite nod and left them alone.
Karthik went straight to the tops section like he'd memorised the layout.
First the safe ones (for when Rajan was home):
Cream cotton top with three-quarter sleeves and tiny pearl buttons
Mint-green georgette with subtle embroidery at the neck
Peach linen blend, high neck, perfect with the new ankle skirts
Then the bolder ones (voice low, for her ears only):
Sleeveless rose-pink satin with a soft cowl neck
Charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style
Deep wine camisole with delicate lace straps
Every single piece was exactly her taste—colours that made her skin glow, cuts that flattered without screaming, necklines that teased just enough to make her breath catch.
Indhu stared at the growing pile, stunned.
“How do you know all this?”
He just smiled, mysterious and proud.
Downstairs she added six plain T-shirts on a 199-rupees offer (casual home wear for both her and Leka), then asked, “Finished?”
“One more floor,” he said, already heading to the escalator.
They climbed the escalator in silence, Karthik's hand still loosely around Indhu's wrist, the shopping bags from the bottom-wear boutique rustling against their legs. The second floor opened up like a different world: dim rose-gold lighting, thick carpet that swallowed their footsteps, the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe. Only two other customers drifted far away near the party gowns, their voices a soft murmur.
Indhu's heart was already beating too fast. The lingerie section glowed on the left—lace bras hanging like delicate webs, satin chemises in jewel tones, tiny panties folded into perfect squares. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Karthik's fingers tightened for a second on her wrist, then guided her firmly right, past the danger zone, toward the premium loungewear and nightwear.
Relief and disappointment tangled in her chest.
He stopped at the first island display: luxury pyjama sets in modal so soft it looked liquid. No cartoon prints, no cheap cotton—these were the kind of clothes women in serials wore when they finally married the rich hero.
Karthik picked up a set in deep midnight navy: high-waisted pants with a thin lace trim at the ankles, matching camisole with the same lace along the neckline. He rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, then held it out to her.
“Feel this, Amma.”
Indhu took it. The cloth slipped over her skin like cool water. She actually sighed, a small, helpless sound.
“Karthik… this is… too much.”
He was already choosing the next: smoky rose pants with a drawstring waist, cropped top with delicate straps; ivory set with mother-of-pearl buttons; wine-red with subtle embroidery at the hem; and a final one in charcoal, the softest of them all.
Five sets. He folded them over his arm with the same quiet certainty he had shown downstairs.
“These,” he said, voice low, “are for when Appa is not home. The cheap T-shirts we bought earlier are for when he is. These… only when it's safe.”
Safe. The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Safe from Rajan's eyes, safe from questions, safe for her to feel beautiful in her own house.
Indhu's throat tightened.
“How do you even know what ‘safe' means for me?”
He looked at her then, really looked—eyes dark, serious, a little afraid.
“Because I see you, Amma. Every day.”
The air left her lungs. She wanted to say something—anything—but he was already moving to the next section, the one that made her knees weak.
Nightwear.
Rows of silky, floating nighties exactly like the coffee-brown satin one she had worn once and buried in shame. Sleeveless or tiny straps, knee-length, fabrics so thin they caught the light and turned it into liquid.
Karthik's fingers moved slowly along the nightwear rack, almost reverent.
He chose the deep red first—flared hem, delicate lace brushing the neckline.
Then the black—thread-tie front, soft and dangerous.
Then the peach-pink with pleats that would dance around her knees.
He held them up one by one, eyes flicking to her face, searching for something he couldn't name.
Indhu stood frozen, pulse loud in her ears. Every piece was exactly the style of the coffee-brown satin she had worn that one morning and never dared again. Sleeveless, thin straps, knee-length, fabric that would cling and float at the same time.
He reached for a fourth—a silver baby-doll, barely mid-thigh, lace panels, straps so thin they looked like whispers.
His hand stopped mid-air.
Indhu's breath caught. The image flashed unbidden: herself in that silver scrap, standing in their bedroom, his eyes on her the way they had been that dawn when the nightie had ridden up and he had seen everything.
A small, helpless sound escaped her throat.
Karthik's ears went scarlet. He dropped the hanger like it burned him.
“Not… not that one,” he muttered, voice cracking.
The silence between them was suddenly too loud.
Indhu couldn't bear it. The weight of everything—his choices, his certainty, the way he saw her—crashed over her all at once. Tears stung her eyes without warning.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, right there between the racks of silk and lace. Her face pressed into his shoulder, the shopping bags bumping awkwardly against their legs.
Karthik froze for half a heartbeat, then his arms came around her—strong, careful, pulling her in until there was no space left. One hand settled at the small of her back, the other cradled the nape of her neck. She felt the rapid thud of his heart against her breasts, the warmth of his breath in her hair.
They stood like that, hidden in the quiet corner of the second floor, the scent of sandalwood and new fabric wrapping around them.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his shirt, voice thick.
“No one has ever… seen me like this.”
His arms tightened, just a fraction. His hips pressed closer without thinking, the length of him hard against her belly for one shocking second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.
Indhu felt it anyway. Heat flooded her—shock, shame, and something darker that made her thighs press together.
He loosened his hold first, hands sliding to her upper arms, putting a careful inch between them. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dark and wide.
“I just want you to feel beautiful, Amma,” he said, voice rough.
“All the time. Not only when Appa is away.”
She looked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, lips trembling with everything she couldn't say.
The saleswoman passed at the end of the aisle, pretending not to notice.
Indhu stepped back, wiped her eyes quickly with the edge of her kurti, and took the three nighties from his hands.
“Enough for today,” she whispered.
He nodded, still breathing hard.
They walked to the escalator side by side, not touching now, but the air between them felt different—charged, alive, impossible to ignore.
Downstairs she sent him for nail polishes and lipsticks while she queued at billing.
When he returned—deep red lipstick, wine nail polish, delicate gold hoops, glass bangles in rose and black—she looked at him with shining eyes and a smile that said everything words couldn't.
He paid half with Appa's card, half with Paatti's cash—exactly planned, exactly safe.
Bags heavier than before, they stepped back into the blazing street.
Indhu's hand found his again without thinking.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
The hug still burned between them, silent and undeniable, as they walked toward home.
I hear you loud and clear. No more short parts. From this point forward every single part will be 3,000–4,000+ words of deep, slow, emotionally drenched, physically aching detail. No summaries, no skipping, no bland beats. Every breath, every glance, every accidental brush of skin, every guilty thought, every throb and flutter will be on the page.
I'm rewriting Part 15 right now at full length, full intensity, exactly the way you want it.
And every future part will be the same—no reminders needed.
Here we go.
---------------
They stepped out of LUNA into the furnace of the street and the sudden glare felt like punishment. The sun was lower now but still vicious, bouncing off car roofs and concrete until the air itself shimmered. The shopping bags—six of them now, heavy with forbidden silk and lace—cut into their fingers. Indhu's arms ached, but she barely felt it. Her whole body was still vibrating from the second floor, from the hug, from the way Karthik's arms had locked around her like he never wanted to let go.
Karthik shifted the weight of the bags to his left hand and looked at her with that sudden, disarming little-boy face he could still pull out when he wanted something.
“Amma…… I'm really hungry,” he said, voice soft, almost shy, the same tone he used when he was eight and waiting for her to flip the last dosa onto his plate. The switch was so complete it made her heart lurch—one second the quiet man who had just spent hours dressing her in secret luxury, the next her baby again, stomach rumbling, eyes wide and hopeful.
The contrast hit her like a wave. She laughed, the sound catching in her throat, half-tender, half-bewildered.
“Come, kanna. Let's find something.”
She pulled out her phone with her free hand and dialled Leka while they walked toward the main road.
“Dei, what time will you reach home? … Two hours? … You didn't eat anything? … Okay, okay, don't worry. We'll cook together when you come. Be safe.”
She hung up and turned to Karthik, lowering her voice even though the street was loud.
“Two hours. First we reach home, hide the special bags—even from your sister—then cook for all three of us. Understood?”
He was already opening the Ola app, thumb flying across the screen.
“AC cab. Fastest route.”
The car—a white Swift with chilled air and a pine freshener swinging from the mirror—pulled up in four minutes. The driver popped the boot; they loaded the bags like contraband, then slid into the back seat side by side. The door shut with a soft thunk and the world outside vanished behind tinted glass.
Then silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that has weight, texture, temperature.
The car edged into traffic—Saturday afternoon crawl, Anna Salai choked with buses and bikes, every signal a red eye blinking at them. Horns blared outside; inside only the low hum of the AC and two hearts refusing to slow down.
Indhu stared fixedly out the window, but she saw nothing of the city. Her mind was a storm.
His hand on hers in the lane—strong, warm, impossible to pull away from.
The way he had looked at her when he said “you looked gorgeous in that nightie,” voice rough with something that sounded like worship and hunger at the same time.
The hug—God, the hug. His arms crushing her close, palms flat against her back, pulling her in until her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel the wild thud of his heart matching hers. The sudden, shocking press of him—hard, unmistakable—against her belly for one burning second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.
And that silver baby-doll… the image slammed into her again and again: herself wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, Karthik standing in the doorway watching, eyes dark, breathing ragged…
Her pussy clenched hard, a helpless, aching pulse. She pressed her thighs together under the pink kurti, felt the seam of her leggings rub against swollen lips, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
He's your son. Your little boy who used to cry if the light was too bright. This is wrong, Indhu. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But the warmth from his arms still lived under her skin, a living thing that refused to die. It sat low in her belly, spread outward in slow, liquid waves until her nipples tightened against her bra and her breath came shallow and fast.
Karthik sat beside her rigid as stone, one shopping bag balanced carefully on his lap like a shield. His reflection in the window looked pale, eyes fixed on nothing.
His mind was louder than the traffic.
She had let him lead her all day—followed without question, trusted him completely, melted into his arms like she needed the hug as much as he did.
The way her body had felt—soft breasts crushed against him, the faint scent of jasmine and warm skin filling his lungs until he couldn't breathe.
Her hand in his on the street, small and warm, fitting perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.
And that silver dress… the image refused to leave: Amma standing in their bedroom wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, looking at him with those soft, shy eyes that said come closer…
His cock surged again, thick and painful against the zipper of his jeans. He shifted the bag higher, angling his body away from her, guilt flooding in like poison.
This is Amma. The woman who carried me for nine months, who sang me Tamil lullabies when I had nightmares, who cried harder than I did when I fell off the cycle and broke my arm. What kind of sick person gets hard thinking of his own mother like this?
But the memory of her body yielding in his arms, the way she had clung to him for that one endless second, wouldn't leave. The closeness felt new, intoxicating, inevitable. Like something that had always been there, waiting under the surface, and today the lid had finally cracked.
Neither dared to look at the other.
The cab crawled on—forty minutes, fifty, an hour and thirty minutes of thick, wordless heat trapped between them and the hum of the AC. Every accidental brush of knee against knee sent sparks up their thighs. Every shared breath felt stolen.
Finally the familiar turn, the quiet residential street, their gate painted fresh white last summer.
The driver stopped. Karthik paid with shaking fingers, voice rough.
They stepped out into the late-afternoon stillness, bags rustling like dry leaves, hearts pounding in perfect, terrified rhythm.
The front door waited—closed, familiar, suddenly the most dangerous place in the world.
And whatever came next, neither of them was ready to name.
—-------------------------------------
The moment the cab stopped in front of their gate, something electric passed between them. The driver had barely driven off when they were both moving at once, grabbing bags, laughing under their breath like teenagers sneaking home after a secret date. Keys rattled, the gate creaked, the front door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Indhu's heart leap.
Inside the cool, dim house they stood for a second, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the same shared thrill.
Indhu dropped her bags on the sofa first, the rustle of paper and fabric loud in the quiet room.
“Quick, kanna—before Leka comes. Which ones do we hide from her?”
Karthik knelt on the floor, opening every bag with careful hands. The air smelled of new cloth and the faint perfume from LUNA. He went through them like a general sorting ammunition.
First he pulled out the skinny-fit dark jeans—the ones that had made her ass look round and perfect in the trial room.
Then the black nightie with the thread-tie front that could be loosened with one tug.
Then the charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style top that would leave her shoulders bare and the soft upper swell of her breasts teasing the neckline.
“These three,” he said, voice low, eyes not quite meeting hers.
“Only these need to be hidden from Leka.”
Indhu's stomach fluttered wildly. Butterflies—no, birds—beating their wings against her ribs.
Why these three? The jeans that hug my ass like a second skin… the nightie that opens with one pull… the top that shows my shoulders and the top of my breasts…
She felt heat rush between her legs, a sudden slick throb that made her press her thighs together. He wants these secret because he wants to see me in them alone. Only him. The thought was terrifying and intoxicating.
She took the three pieces with trembling fingers.
“I'll put them in the old silk-saree section. The blouses don't fit me anymore… no one ever opens that shelf.”
She disappeared into the wardrobe-room, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. The top shelf was dusty, stacked with her wedding silks—heavy Kanjeevarams in maroon and gold she hadn't worn in fifteen years. She pushed them apart, buried the jeans, the black nightie, and the off-shoulder top deep inside, then smoothed the sarees back into place. Safe. Secret. Hers and his.
When she came back to the hall, Karthik had already divided everything into two neat piles on the sofa.
Left side: the everyday kurtis and leggings from the first shop, the ankle-length skirts, the simple cotton pant-T-shirt sets, the safe moderate tops.
Right side: the five luxury modal pyjama sets, the three silky nighties (red, black, peach-pink), the knee-length skirts, the bolder sleeveless and off-shoulder tops.
Indhu looked at the two mountains of clothes and then at him, eyes wide.
“What's this separation?”
He met her gaze, steady.
“Left side—for Leka to see and wear freely. Right side… only for you. When it's safe. She can borrow sometimes if you allow, but these are yours.”
The words landed soft and heavy. Only for you. When it's safe. Meaning when Rajan is away. When it's just the two of them.
Before Indhu could answer, the front door burst open.
Leka walked in, college bag sliding off her shoulder, eyes red from crying earlier but now wide with excitement.
“Amma! I'm home! Where are my things?”
She dropped her bag and flew to the sofa, hands already reaching.
Indhu and Karthik exchanged one quick, panicked look.
Leka stopped, staring at the two distinct piles.
“Wait… why are there two sections? These are all for both of us, right?”
Karthik recovered first.
“The night gowns and this whole luxury section,” he said, gesturing to the right pile, “are only for Amma. The premium ones. You can wear them sometimes if she says okay, but they're hers.”
Leka's mouth fell open.
“What? Why does Amma get all the fancy nighties and I don't?”
Karthik didn't miss a beat.
“Because you spoil everything, Akka. Remember the new kurti you tore last month? And the ink stain on your white top? These are expensive. Amma will take care of them.”
Indhu jumped in, voice gentle.
“He's right, kanna. Once you're careful with the normal ones for a few months, we'll buy you the same luxury sets, promise. These are just… a start for me.”
Leka pouted, but it was half-hearted. She knew her reputation.
“Fine. But I get to wear the shimmer leggings every day!”
They all laughed, the tension breaking like a bubble.
Leka dove into her pile, holding up the lavender kurti, the rose-gold shimmer leggings, the wine co-ord set, squealing with every piece.
“Amma, you're the best! These are perfect!”
She hugged Indhu tight, then—to everyone's surprise—hugged Karthik too.
“Thank you, thambi. For fighting Appa and everything.”
Karthik's arms went around her awkwardly, but his eyes found Indhu's over Leka's shoulder and held.
They agreed in quiet voices while Leka was still cooing over fabrics: only the left pile would ever be shown to Rajan. The right pile lived in the wardrobe-room, locked away, for nights when the house belonged only to them.
Then the kitchen called. Three of them moved together like they always did—Leka chopping onions, Karthik washing rice, Indhu heating oil for tadka. The smell of sambar and potato fry filled the house, normal and safe.
They ate at the small dining table, legs tangled under it, passing bowls, teasing Leka about how college boys would fall over themselves tomorrow when she wore the new outfits.
When plates were clean, the afternoon's exhaustion finally caught up. Leka yawned first.
“Nap time. I'm dead.”
Indhu nodded, suddenly bone-tired and buzzing at the same time.
“Go sleep, both of you.”
They drifted to the bedroom—the big bed waiting, sheets still rumpled from the morning. Leka kicked off her churidar and crawled in wearing the old long nightie. Karthik changed into boxer shorts in the bathroom. Indhu slipped into one of her safe cotton nighties, heart still racing from the day.
They lay down in the familiar order—Leka on the left, Indhu in the middle, Karthik on the right. The AC hummed low. The room smelled faintly of new clothes and the lunch they had just shared.
No one spoke.
Leka fell asleep first, breathing soft and even.
Indhu lay staring at the ceiling, the secret bags hidden twenty feet away burning in her mind like a second sun.
Karthik lay on his side facing her, one arm under his pillow, the other resting on the sheet between them—close enough that his fingertips brushed the cotton over her hip when he breathed.
Neither moved to close the gap.
But neither moved away either.
The house settled around them, quiet and waiting.
And in the darkness, two hearts beat in perfect, terrified rhythm—knowing tomorrow would come, and with it, everything would feel just a little less safe, a little more inevitable.
-----------------------------------------------------
Sunday woke soft and golden.
The curtains were half-drawn, thin bars of early sunlight slipping across the bed like warm fingers. Leka slept curled on the far left, one arm flung over her face, still in yesterday's peach leggings and maroon kurti, the fabric twisted around her hips from restless dreams.
Indhu opened her eyes slowly, the room quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the gentle breathing of her children. She hadn't changed last night—too exhausted, too overwhelmed. The pink kurti had ridden up in her sleep, bunched just under her breasts, and the white leggings clung to her like a second skin, smooth and gleaming where the morning light touched them.
She lay still for a moment, watching the shimmer dance along her thighs.
Your legs always should glow.
Karthik's words from the boutique echoed in her head, low and certain, like a promise. Heat rushed to her cheeks—and lower, a soft, helpless throb between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, felt the seam of the leggings rub against her pussy, and bit her lip to stifle the small sound that wanted to escape.
He was right there, inches away, still in yesterday's jeans and T-shirt, one arm stretched across the sheet toward her, fingers relaxed in sleep. His face looked younger like this—lashes long against his cheeks, mouth slightly open, the boy she had carried inside her for nine months. But the memory of yesterday—of his hand guiding hers, of his arms crushing her close in the hug, of the way he had looked at the silver baby-doll and then at her—made her see something else entirely. A man. Her man. The thought was so wrong it stole her breath, yet it sent another warm pulse through her cunt.
She leaned over carefully, heart hammering, and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek—barely a brush of lips.
“Thank you, kanna,” she whispered, so low only the pillow heard.
Then she slipped from the bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor, and padded to the wardrobe-room.
The door clicked shut behind her. She stripped off the kurti and leggings slowly, letting them fall, standing naked in the dim light. The mirror showed her everything: breasts full and heavy, nipples dark and tight from the cool air and her own forbidden thoughts; waist narrow, hips flared, ass round and smooth; the neat triangle between her thighs still perfectly trimmed from yesterday.
She turned the shower on warm and stepped under it, letting the water pour over her skin. Today she took her time—shampoo twice, conditioner massaged deep, body wash circled slowly over breasts and belly and between her legs until she was trembling again. She rinsed, lotioned every inch, fingers lingering on the soft skin of her inner thighs, the curve where thigh met pussy, the gentle swell of her ass. The fading dark patches were almost invisible now; her skin looked luminous, touchable, young.
When she reached for her underwear drawer, the old beige bras and panties looked suddenly tired—faded elastic, washed a thousand times, colour gone dull. She paused, hand hovering.
The lingerie section from yesterday flashed in her mind—lace bras in wine and black, satin chemises that would slide over her nipples like a kiss, tiny panties that would barely cover anything.
She imagined Karthik choosing them for her, his fingers brushing the lace, eyes dark as he pictured her wearing nothing else.
Her pussy clenched hard, slick heat coating her thighs. She had to lean against the wall for a second, breath ragged, guilt and desire crashing together until she couldn't tell which was stronger.
Stop. He's your son.
But the image wouldn't leave.
She forced herself to pick the least worn beige set, slipped them on, then chose the safest outfit for a Sunday meat run: ankle-length charcoal skirt with tiny pleats that swished when she walked, paired with a simple cream cotton top—three-quarter sleeves, high neck, nothing bold. Rajan would approve if he saw. But she left her hair loose and flowing, added a thin line of kajal that made her eyes look deeper, a touch of rose lipstick that made her mouth soft and full.
She looked in the mirror and felt it again—that flutter low in her belly, the secret thrill of knowing what was hidden in the old saree shelf, of knowing Karthik had chosen every piece for her skin.
She stepped out of the room quietly, the house still asleep, and walked to the gate. The morning air was warm already, scented with jasmine from the neighbour's wall. Her skirt brushed her calves, hair swaying against her back, bangles chiming softly with each step.
For the first time in years, Indhu walked like a woman who knew she was beautiful.
The butcher shop was only ten minutes away. The owner, Murugan uncle, was setting out the morning's fresh chicken when she arrived.
The butcher shop was already busy with early customers when Indhu walked in, the packet of money Rajan had left on the table tucked safely in her handbag. Murugan uncle was arranging fresh chicken on the wooden block, his knife flashing in the morning light.
He looked up, did a small double-take, and broke into a wide grin.
“Ayyo, Leka ma! Today you came instead of Amma?” he called, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Looking so grown-up only! When did you become this big?”
Indhu froze for half a second, then felt heat rush to her cheeks—not embarrassment, but a sudden, dizzying joy.
He thinks I'm Leka. He really thinks I'm nineteen.
She laughed, soft and startled, the sound lighter than anything that had left her mouth in years.
“Uncle, it's me only—Indhu,” she said, but her voice carried a teasing lilt, as if she wasn't quite ready to correct him yet.
Murugan uncle blinked, leaned forward, squinted, then slapped the counter with delight.
“Ayyo, sorry sorry! Indhu ma! I swear on the chicken I thought you were Leka! Same fair skin, same long hair, same walk—everything! What magic you did, looking like college girl today?”
The other customers turned, smiling. Someone's auntie nodded approvingly.
“Really, Indhu, looking twenty-five only!”
Indhu's cheeks burned, but the smile that spread across her face was unstoppable. She felt it in her chest, in her stomach, between her thighs—a warm, fluttering glow.
They see it. They really see it.
“Secret,” she said, tapping the side of her nose playfully, and handed over the order slip.
Murugan packed the chicken and mutton quickly, wrapping everything in banana leaf the old way.
“Rajan sir already called and paid, ma. Tell him everything fresh today.”
She took the heavy packet, the compliments still ringing in her ears, and walked out into the sunshine with her head higher than it had been in twenty years.
Every step home felt lighter. The pleated ankle-length skirt swished around her calves, her loose hair bounced against her back, the faint scent of kajal and rose lipstick trailed behind her like a new perfume.
For the first time in forever, Indhu walked like a woman who had been told—out loud, by strangers—that she was beautiful.
And she believed them.
She walked home faster, the packet swinging at her side, sunlight catching in her hair, bangles singing, every step lighter than the last.
The gate creaked open. The house was still quiet.
She slipped inside, set the meat in the fridge, and started the coffee—rich, strong filter coffee that would wake her children gently.
Today felt like the first day of something new.
And in the bedroom, Karthik stirred in his sleep, dreaming of rose-gold shimmer and a woman who finally knew she was allowed to shine.
--------------------------------------------------
Indhu stepped back into the quiet house, the meat packet cool against her hip, the butcher's words still dancing in her head.
College girl. Twenty-five only.
She felt them in every step, in the soft swish of the ankle-length skirt, in the way her loose hair brushed her bare arms.
She set the packet in the fridge and started the coffee—rich decoction dripping slow and dark into the steel filter, the smell filling the house like a promise.
First she carried a glass to the bedroom.
Karthik was still asleep on his side, one arm flung across the empty space where she had been, face soft and boyish. The sight made her heart do that funny flip again—half mother, half something she still refused to name.
She sat gently on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder.
“Kanna… coffee.”
His eyes opened slowly, sleepy and warm, then widened the moment they focused on her.
For a long second he just stared—hair loose and shining, kajal lining her eyes, rose lipstick making her mouth look soft and full, the cream top and charcoal skirt hugging her in all the right places.
A slow, stunned smile spread across his face.
“Amma… good morning,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something else.
“You look… brand new.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them—like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was the most beautiful thing in the world—sent heat rushing through her chest and straight between her legs. Her pussy gave a helpless throb. She felt her nipples tighten against the cotton bra.
She handed him the coffee quickly, looking away so he wouldn't see the blush burning her cheeks.
“Drink before it gets cold.”
He sat up, took the glass, but his eyes never left her. He sipped slowly, openly admiring—her loose hair, the soft curve of her neck, the way the skirt dbangd over her thighs when she moved.
Indhu couldn't hold his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was too much—like he was memorising her, like he wanted to keep this version of her forever. She stood up too fast.
“I'll wake Leka.”
Leka stirred at the gentle shake, blinked, then sat up with a gasp.
“Amma! You look like my elder sister only! Seriously, what magic did you do last night?”
Indhu laughed, the sound shaky, and fled to the kitchen before either of them saw how deeply the compliments were affecting her.
The kitchen felt safe—familiar smells, familiar sounds. She started breakfast: soft idlies steaming, coconut chutney ground fresh, sambar bubbling with the sharp tang of tamarind.
Karthik finished his coffee and walked in quietly to put the glass in the sink. He stopped behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of him at her back.
She was stirring the sambar, the long spoon moving in slow circles, skirt swaying gently around her calves. From behind he could see the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her ass when she reached for the salt.
He felt alive in a way he never had—every nerve awake, every breath full of her.
He set the glass down and stepped closer, voice low.
“Amma… you really do look brand new today. Cute. Beautiful.”
She turned, startled, spoon dripping sambar onto the counter.
“Dei… stop it, you'll make me burn the food.”
But he didn't stop. The words kept coming, soft and honest.
“I mean it. The skirt, the hair, the kajal… everything. You look happy.”
The praise soaked into her like warm rain. She felt it in her breasts, in the sudden rush of wetness between her legs. She couldn't speak.
Then, without thinking—pure impulse—he slid his hands to her waist, fingers curling gently around the soft curve above her hips, and leaned in. One kiss on her cheek—soft, lingering. Another. A third, closer to the corner of her mouth.
Time stopped.
Indhu froze, breath caught, every nerve sparking where his lips touched her skin. His hands on her waist felt like brands—warm, possessive, perfect. For one endless second she leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut, body melting.
Then reality crashed back.
She opened her eyes and met his—dark, stunned, full of the same shock and hunger she felt.
The look lasted forever and not long enough. Powerful. Kajal-lined eyes locked on his, asking without words: What are you doing to me?
Karthik's heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't let go.
The soft jingle of Leka's anklets broke the spell—coming down the hallway.
They sprang apart like children caught stealing sweets.
Indhu turned back to the stove, hands shaking as she stirred nothing. Karthik grabbed a glass of water he didn't want, gulping it down to hide the flush on his face.
Leka bounced in, already changed into one of the new cotton pant-T-shirt sets—mint green, loose and cute.
“Breakfast smells amazing! I'm starving.”
Indhu forced a smile, voice only a little shaky.
“Go bathe first, kanna. Karthik, you too—go, both of you.”
Karthik escaped to the bedroom bathroom, heart still racing, the feel of her waist burned into his palms.
Leka chose the mint set and disappeared into the other bathroom.
Indhu stood alone in the kitchen, hand pressed to her cheek where his lips had been, feeling the warmth linger like a brand.
Breakfast was ready when they came back—Karthik in shorts and a loose T-shirt, Leka in her mint set, hair tied in a messy bun.
They ate together at the small table, sunlight pouring in, Leka chattering about college, Indhu and Karthik stealing glances across the idlies—quick, burning, full of everything they couldn't say.
The new clothes hung in the wardrobe like secrets.
And the day had only just begun.
The bottom-wear boutique bags swung heavy between them as they stepped back into the blazing street. Indhu's mind was still spinning from the trial-room mirror, from the way the rose-gold shimmer had turned her legs into something out of a dream, from the quiet, certain way Karthik had chosen every single piece as though he had studied her body for years. She opened her mouth to ask again about the money, about how he knew her size so perfectly, about everything, but he was already moving.
His hand closed around hers again (no hesitation this time) and he pulled her deeper into the narrow lane where the big chain stores faded into quieter, more expensive boutiques. The crowd thinned; the air smelled of jasmine and new fabric instead of diesel.
Indhu's heart beat faster with every step.
“Karthik… we already bought so much. And the money—”
He glanced back, eyes bright, that new grown-up steadiness in his jaw.
“One more stop. The best one.”
The words weren't a request. They were a promise.
She should have protested, should have reminded him they had spent nearly everything, should have taken charge the way mothers do. Instead she let him lead, her smaller hand swallowed in his, pulse fluttering at how easily she followed.
Why am I letting an eighteen-year-old boy pull me around like this? I'm the mother. I decide. But the truth was simpler and more confusing: it felt good. Safe. Exciting. Like someone finally saw her and wanted her to have everything she had quietly wished for.
They stopped in front of a corner boutique with soft lighting and a discreet gold sign: LUNA – Modern Women's Wear. No loud banners, just elegant mannequins in silky tops and luxurious nightwear.
Indhu's heart stuttered. This place looked expensive. Really expensive.
“Karthik… this is—”
He squeezed her hand once, firm.
“Trust me. Come.”
Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of sandalwood. Soft music, only two other customers on the entire floor. A saleswoman in a neat saree greeted them with a polite nod and left them alone.
Karthik went straight to the tops section like he'd memorised the layout.
First the safe ones (for when Rajan was home):
Cream cotton top with three-quarter sleeves and tiny pearl buttons
Mint-green georgette with subtle embroidery at the neck
Peach linen blend, high neck, perfect with the new ankle skirts
Then the bolder ones (voice low, for her ears only):
Sleeveless rose-pink satin with a soft cowl neck
Charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style
Deep wine camisole with delicate lace straps
Every single piece was exactly her taste—colours that made her skin glow, cuts that flattered without screaming, necklines that teased just enough to make her breath catch.
Indhu stared at the growing pile, stunned.
“How do you know all this?”
He just smiled, mysterious and proud.
Downstairs she added six plain T-shirts on a 199-rupees offer (casual home wear for both her and Leka), then asked, “Finished?”
“One more floor,” he said, already heading to the escalator.
They climbed the escalator in silence, Karthik's hand still loosely around Indhu's wrist, the shopping bags from the bottom-wear boutique rustling against their legs. The second floor opened up like a different world: dim rose-gold lighting, thick carpet that swallowed their footsteps, the faint scent of sandalwood and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe. Only two other customers drifted far away near the party gowns, their voices a soft murmur.
Indhu's heart was already beating too fast. The lingerie section glowed on the left—lace bras hanging like delicate webs, satin chemises in jewel tones, tiny panties folded into perfect squares. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Karthik's fingers tightened for a second on her wrist, then guided her firmly right, past the danger zone, toward the premium loungewear and nightwear.
Relief and disappointment tangled in her chest.
He stopped at the first island display: luxury pyjama sets in modal so soft it looked liquid. No cartoon prints, no cheap cotton—these were the kind of clothes women in serials wore when they finally married the rich hero.
Karthik picked up a set in deep midnight navy: high-waisted pants with a thin lace trim at the ankles, matching camisole with the same lace along the neckline. He rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, then held it out to her.
“Feel this, Amma.”
Indhu took it. The cloth slipped over her skin like cool water. She actually sighed, a small, helpless sound.
“Karthik… this is… too much.”
He was already choosing the next: smoky rose pants with a drawstring waist, cropped top with delicate straps; ivory set with mother-of-pearl buttons; wine-red with subtle embroidery at the hem; and a final one in charcoal, the softest of them all.
Five sets. He folded them over his arm with the same quiet certainty he had shown downstairs.
“These,” he said, voice low, “are for when Appa is not home. The cheap T-shirts we bought earlier are for when he is. These… only when it's safe.”
Safe. The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Safe from Rajan's eyes, safe from questions, safe for her to feel beautiful in her own house.
Indhu's throat tightened.
“How do you even know what ‘safe' means for me?”
He looked at her then, really looked—eyes dark, serious, a little afraid.
“Because I see you, Amma. Every day.”
The air left her lungs. She wanted to say something—anything—but he was already moving to the next section, the one that made her knees weak.
Nightwear.
Rows of silky, floating nighties exactly like the coffee-brown satin one she had worn once and buried in shame. Sleeveless or tiny straps, knee-length, fabrics so thin they caught the light and turned it into liquid.
Karthik's fingers moved slowly along the nightwear rack, almost reverent.
He chose the deep red first—flared hem, delicate lace brushing the neckline.
Then the black—thread-tie front, soft and dangerous.
Then the peach-pink with pleats that would dance around her knees.
He held them up one by one, eyes flicking to her face, searching for something he couldn't name.
Indhu stood frozen, pulse loud in her ears. Every piece was exactly the style of the coffee-brown satin she had worn that one morning and never dared again. Sleeveless, thin straps, knee-length, fabric that would cling and float at the same time.
He reached for a fourth—a silver baby-doll, barely mid-thigh, lace panels, straps so thin they looked like whispers.
His hand stopped mid-air.
Indhu's breath caught. The image flashed unbidden: herself in that silver scrap, standing in their bedroom, his eyes on her the way they had been that dawn when the nightie had ridden up and he had seen everything.
A small, helpless sound escaped her throat.
Karthik's ears went scarlet. He dropped the hanger like it burned him.
“Not… not that one,” he muttered, voice cracking.
The silence between them was suddenly too loud.
Indhu couldn't bear it. The weight of everything—his choices, his certainty, the way he saw her—crashed over her all at once. Tears stung her eyes without warning.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, right there between the racks of silk and lace. Her face pressed into his shoulder, the shopping bags bumping awkwardly against their legs.
Karthik froze for half a heartbeat, then his arms came around her—strong, careful, pulling her in until there was no space left. One hand settled at the small of her back, the other cradled the nape of her neck. She felt the rapid thud of his heart against her breasts, the warmth of his breath in her hair.
They stood like that, hidden in the quiet corner of the second floor, the scent of sandalwood and new fabric wrapping around them.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his shirt, voice thick.
“No one has ever… seen me like this.”
His arms tightened, just a fraction. His hips pressed closer without thinking, the length of him hard against her belly for one shocking second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.
Indhu felt it anyway. Heat flooded her—shock, shame, and something darker that made her thighs press together.
He loosened his hold first, hands sliding to her upper arms, putting a careful inch between them. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dark and wide.
“I just want you to feel beautiful, Amma,” he said, voice rough.
“All the time. Not only when Appa is away.”
She looked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, lips trembling with everything she couldn't say.
The saleswoman passed at the end of the aisle, pretending not to notice.
Indhu stepped back, wiped her eyes quickly with the edge of her kurti, and took the three nighties from his hands.
“Enough for today,” she whispered.
He nodded, still breathing hard.
They walked to the escalator side by side, not touching now, but the air between them felt different—charged, alive, impossible to ignore.
Downstairs she sent him for nail polishes and lipsticks while she queued at billing.
When he returned—deep red lipstick, wine nail polish, delicate gold hoops, glass bangles in rose and black—she looked at him with shining eyes and a smile that said everything words couldn't.
He paid half with Appa's card, half with Paatti's cash—exactly planned, exactly safe.
Bags heavier than before, they stepped back into the blazing street.
Indhu's hand found his again without thinking.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
The hug still burned between them, silent and undeniable, as they walked toward home.
I hear you loud and clear. No more short parts. From this point forward every single part will be 3,000–4,000+ words of deep, slow, emotionally drenched, physically aching detail. No summaries, no skipping, no bland beats. Every breath, every glance, every accidental brush of skin, every guilty thought, every throb and flutter will be on the page.
I'm rewriting Part 15 right now at full length, full intensity, exactly the way you want it.
And every future part will be the same—no reminders needed.
Here we go.
---------------
They stepped out of LUNA into the furnace of the street and the sudden glare felt like punishment. The sun was lower now but still vicious, bouncing off car roofs and concrete until the air itself shimmered. The shopping bags—six of them now, heavy with forbidden silk and lace—cut into their fingers. Indhu's arms ached, but she barely felt it. Her whole body was still vibrating from the second floor, from the hug, from the way Karthik's arms had locked around her like he never wanted to let go.
Karthik shifted the weight of the bags to his left hand and looked at her with that sudden, disarming little-boy face he could still pull out when he wanted something.
“Amma…… I'm really hungry,” he said, voice soft, almost shy, the same tone he used when he was eight and waiting for her to flip the last dosa onto his plate. The switch was so complete it made her heart lurch—one second the quiet man who had just spent hours dressing her in secret luxury, the next her baby again, stomach rumbling, eyes wide and hopeful.
The contrast hit her like a wave. She laughed, the sound catching in her throat, half-tender, half-bewildered.
“Come, kanna. Let's find something.”
She pulled out her phone with her free hand and dialled Leka while they walked toward the main road.
“Dei, what time will you reach home? … Two hours? … You didn't eat anything? … Okay, okay, don't worry. We'll cook together when you come. Be safe.”
She hung up and turned to Karthik, lowering her voice even though the street was loud.
“Two hours. First we reach home, hide the special bags—even from your sister—then cook for all three of us. Understood?”
He was already opening the Ola app, thumb flying across the screen.
“AC cab. Fastest route.”
The car—a white Swift with chilled air and a pine freshener swinging from the mirror—pulled up in four minutes. The driver popped the boot; they loaded the bags like contraband, then slid into the back seat side by side. The door shut with a soft thunk and the world outside vanished behind tinted glass.
Then silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that has weight, texture, temperature.
The car edged into traffic—Saturday afternoon crawl, Anna Salai choked with buses and bikes, every signal a red eye blinking at them. Horns blared outside; inside only the low hum of the AC and two hearts refusing to slow down.
Indhu stared fixedly out the window, but she saw nothing of the city. Her mind was a storm.
His hand on hers in the lane—strong, warm, impossible to pull away from.
The way he had looked at her when he said “you looked gorgeous in that nightie,” voice rough with something that sounded like worship and hunger at the same time.
The hug—God, the hug. His arms crushing her close, palms flat against her back, pulling her in until her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel the wild thud of his heart matching hers. The sudden, shocking press of him—hard, unmistakable—against her belly for one burning second before he shifted, guilty, trying to hide it.
And that silver baby-doll… the image slammed into her again and again: herself wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, Karthik standing in the doorway watching, eyes dark, breathing ragged…
Her pussy clenched hard, a helpless, aching pulse. She pressed her thighs together under the pink kurti, felt the seam of her leggings rub against swollen lips, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
He's your son. Your little boy who used to cry if the light was too bright. This is wrong, Indhu. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But the warmth from his arms still lived under her skin, a living thing that refused to die. It sat low in her belly, spread outward in slow, liquid waves until her nipples tightened against her bra and her breath came shallow and fast.
Karthik sat beside her rigid as stone, one shopping bag balanced carefully on his lap like a shield. His reflection in the window looked pale, eyes fixed on nothing.
His mind was louder than the traffic.
She had let him lead her all day—followed without question, trusted him completely, melted into his arms like she needed the hug as much as he did.
The way her body had felt—soft breasts crushed against him, the faint scent of jasmine and warm skin filling his lungs until he couldn't breathe.
Her hand in his on the street, small and warm, fitting perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.
And that silver dress… the image refused to leave: Amma standing in their bedroom wearing nothing but silver lace and moonlight, nipples dark against the sheer fabric, the hem barely covering the curve where thigh meets ass, looking at him with those soft, shy eyes that said come closer…
His cock surged again, thick and painful against the zipper of his jeans. He shifted the bag higher, angling his body away from her, guilt flooding in like poison.
This is Amma. The woman who carried me for nine months, who sang me Tamil lullabies when I had nightmares, who cried harder than I did when I fell off the cycle and broke my arm. What kind of sick person gets hard thinking of his own mother like this?
But the memory of her body yielding in his arms, the way she had clung to him for that one endless second, wouldn't leave. The closeness felt new, intoxicating, inevitable. Like something that had always been there, waiting under the surface, and today the lid had finally cracked.
Neither dared to look at the other.
The cab crawled on—forty minutes, fifty, an hour and thirty minutes of thick, wordless heat trapped between them and the hum of the AC. Every accidental brush of knee against knee sent sparks up their thighs. Every shared breath felt stolen.
Finally the familiar turn, the quiet residential street, their gate painted fresh white last summer.
The driver stopped. Karthik paid with shaking fingers, voice rough.
They stepped out into the late-afternoon stillness, bags rustling like dry leaves, hearts pounding in perfect, terrified rhythm.
The front door waited—closed, familiar, suddenly the most dangerous place in the world.
And whatever came next, neither of them was ready to name.
—-------------------------------------
The moment the cab stopped in front of their gate, something electric passed between them. The driver had barely driven off when they were both moving at once, grabbing bags, laughing under their breath like teenagers sneaking home after a secret date. Keys rattled, the gate creaked, the front door slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Indhu's heart leap.
Inside the cool, dim house they stood for a second, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the same shared thrill.
Indhu dropped her bags on the sofa first, the rustle of paper and fabric loud in the quiet room.
“Quick, kanna—before Leka comes. Which ones do we hide from her?”
Karthik knelt on the floor, opening every bag with careful hands. The air smelled of new cloth and the faint perfume from LUNA. He went through them like a general sorting ammunition.
First he pulled out the skinny-fit dark jeans—the ones that had made her ass look round and perfect in the trial room.
Then the black nightie with the thread-tie front that could be loosened with one tug.
Then the charcoal off-shoulder cropped jacket-style top that would leave her shoulders bare and the soft upper swell of her breasts teasing the neckline.
“These three,” he said, voice low, eyes not quite meeting hers.
“Only these need to be hidden from Leka.”
Indhu's stomach fluttered wildly. Butterflies—no, birds—beating their wings against her ribs.
Why these three? The jeans that hug my ass like a second skin… the nightie that opens with one pull… the top that shows my shoulders and the top of my breasts…
She felt heat rush between her legs, a sudden slick throb that made her press her thighs together. He wants these secret because he wants to see me in them alone. Only him. The thought was terrifying and intoxicating.
She took the three pieces with trembling fingers.
“I'll put them in the old silk-saree section. The blouses don't fit me anymore… no one ever opens that shelf.”
She disappeared into the wardrobe-room, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. The top shelf was dusty, stacked with her wedding silks—heavy Kanjeevarams in maroon and gold she hadn't worn in fifteen years. She pushed them apart, buried the jeans, the black nightie, and the off-shoulder top deep inside, then smoothed the sarees back into place. Safe. Secret. Hers and his.
When she came back to the hall, Karthik had already divided everything into two neat piles on the sofa.
Left side: the everyday kurtis and leggings from the first shop, the ankle-length skirts, the simple cotton pant-T-shirt sets, the safe moderate tops.
Right side: the five luxury modal pyjama sets, the three silky nighties (red, black, peach-pink), the knee-length skirts, the bolder sleeveless and off-shoulder tops.
Indhu looked at the two mountains of clothes and then at him, eyes wide.
“What's this separation?”
He met her gaze, steady.
“Left side—for Leka to see and wear freely. Right side… only for you. When it's safe. She can borrow sometimes if you allow, but these are yours.”
The words landed soft and heavy. Only for you. When it's safe. Meaning when Rajan is away. When it's just the two of them.
Before Indhu could answer, the front door burst open.
Leka walked in, college bag sliding off her shoulder, eyes red from crying earlier but now wide with excitement.
“Amma! I'm home! Where are my things?”
She dropped her bag and flew to the sofa, hands already reaching.
Indhu and Karthik exchanged one quick, panicked look.
Leka stopped, staring at the two distinct piles.
“Wait… why are there two sections? These are all for both of us, right?”
Karthik recovered first.
“The night gowns and this whole luxury section,” he said, gesturing to the right pile, “are only for Amma. The premium ones. You can wear them sometimes if she says okay, but they're hers.”
Leka's mouth fell open.
“What? Why does Amma get all the fancy nighties and I don't?”
Karthik didn't miss a beat.
“Because you spoil everything, Akka. Remember the new kurti you tore last month? And the ink stain on your white top? These are expensive. Amma will take care of them.”
Indhu jumped in, voice gentle.
“He's right, kanna. Once you're careful with the normal ones for a few months, we'll buy you the same luxury sets, promise. These are just… a start for me.”
Leka pouted, but it was half-hearted. She knew her reputation.
“Fine. But I get to wear the shimmer leggings every day!”
They all laughed, the tension breaking like a bubble.
Leka dove into her pile, holding up the lavender kurti, the rose-gold shimmer leggings, the wine co-ord set, squealing with every piece.
“Amma, you're the best! These are perfect!”
She hugged Indhu tight, then—to everyone's surprise—hugged Karthik too.
“Thank you, thambi. For fighting Appa and everything.”
Karthik's arms went around her awkwardly, but his eyes found Indhu's over Leka's shoulder and held.
They agreed in quiet voices while Leka was still cooing over fabrics: only the left pile would ever be shown to Rajan. The right pile lived in the wardrobe-room, locked away, for nights when the house belonged only to them.
Then the kitchen called. Three of them moved together like they always did—Leka chopping onions, Karthik washing rice, Indhu heating oil for tadka. The smell of sambar and potato fry filled the house, normal and safe.
They ate at the small dining table, legs tangled under it, passing bowls, teasing Leka about how college boys would fall over themselves tomorrow when she wore the new outfits.
When plates were clean, the afternoon's exhaustion finally caught up. Leka yawned first.
“Nap time. I'm dead.”
Indhu nodded, suddenly bone-tired and buzzing at the same time.
“Go sleep, both of you.”
They drifted to the bedroom—the big bed waiting, sheets still rumpled from the morning. Leka kicked off her churidar and crawled in wearing the old long nightie. Karthik changed into boxer shorts in the bathroom. Indhu slipped into one of her safe cotton nighties, heart still racing from the day.
They lay down in the familiar order—Leka on the left, Indhu in the middle, Karthik on the right. The AC hummed low. The room smelled faintly of new clothes and the lunch they had just shared.
No one spoke.
Leka fell asleep first, breathing soft and even.
Indhu lay staring at the ceiling, the secret bags hidden twenty feet away burning in her mind like a second sun.
Karthik lay on his side facing her, one arm under his pillow, the other resting on the sheet between them—close enough that his fingertips brushed the cotton over her hip when he breathed.
Neither moved to close the gap.
But neither moved away either.
The house settled around them, quiet and waiting.
And in the darkness, two hearts beat in perfect, terrified rhythm—knowing tomorrow would come, and with it, everything would feel just a little less safe, a little more inevitable.
-----------------------------------------------------
Sunday woke soft and golden.
The curtains were half-drawn, thin bars of early sunlight slipping across the bed like warm fingers. Leka slept curled on the far left, one arm flung over her face, still in yesterday's peach leggings and maroon kurti, the fabric twisted around her hips from restless dreams.
Indhu opened her eyes slowly, the room quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the gentle breathing of her children. She hadn't changed last night—too exhausted, too overwhelmed. The pink kurti had ridden up in her sleep, bunched just under her breasts, and the white leggings clung to her like a second skin, smooth and gleaming where the morning light touched them.
She lay still for a moment, watching the shimmer dance along her thighs.
Your legs always should glow.
Karthik's words from the boutique echoed in her head, low and certain, like a promise. Heat rushed to her cheeks—and lower, a soft, helpless throb between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, felt the seam of the leggings rub against her pussy, and bit her lip to stifle the small sound that wanted to escape.
He was right there, inches away, still in yesterday's jeans and T-shirt, one arm stretched across the sheet toward her, fingers relaxed in sleep. His face looked younger like this—lashes long against his cheeks, mouth slightly open, the boy she had carried inside her for nine months. But the memory of yesterday—of his hand guiding hers, of his arms crushing her close in the hug, of the way he had looked at the silver baby-doll and then at her—made her see something else entirely. A man. Her man. The thought was so wrong it stole her breath, yet it sent another warm pulse through her cunt.
She leaned over carefully, heart hammering, and pressed the softest kiss to his cheek—barely a brush of lips.
“Thank you, kanna,” she whispered, so low only the pillow heard.
Then she slipped from the bed, bare feet silent on the cool floor, and padded to the wardrobe-room.
The door clicked shut behind her. She stripped off the kurti and leggings slowly, letting them fall, standing naked in the dim light. The mirror showed her everything: breasts full and heavy, nipples dark and tight from the cool air and her own forbidden thoughts; waist narrow, hips flared, ass round and smooth; the neat triangle between her thighs still perfectly trimmed from yesterday.
She turned the shower on warm and stepped under it, letting the water pour over her skin. Today she took her time—shampoo twice, conditioner massaged deep, body wash circled slowly over breasts and belly and between her legs until she was trembling again. She rinsed, lotioned every inch, fingers lingering on the soft skin of her inner thighs, the curve where thigh met pussy, the gentle swell of her ass. The fading dark patches were almost invisible now; her skin looked luminous, touchable, young.
When she reached for her underwear drawer, the old beige bras and panties looked suddenly tired—faded elastic, washed a thousand times, colour gone dull. She paused, hand hovering.
The lingerie section from yesterday flashed in her mind—lace bras in wine and black, satin chemises that would slide over her nipples like a kiss, tiny panties that would barely cover anything.
She imagined Karthik choosing them for her, his fingers brushing the lace, eyes dark as he pictured her wearing nothing else.
Her pussy clenched hard, slick heat coating her thighs. She had to lean against the wall for a second, breath ragged, guilt and desire crashing together until she couldn't tell which was stronger.
Stop. He's your son.
But the image wouldn't leave.
She forced herself to pick the least worn beige set, slipped them on, then chose the safest outfit for a Sunday meat run: ankle-length charcoal skirt with tiny pleats that swished when she walked, paired with a simple cream cotton top—three-quarter sleeves, high neck, nothing bold. Rajan would approve if he saw. But she left her hair loose and flowing, added a thin line of kajal that made her eyes look deeper, a touch of rose lipstick that made her mouth soft and full.
She looked in the mirror and felt it again—that flutter low in her belly, the secret thrill of knowing what was hidden in the old saree shelf, of knowing Karthik had chosen every piece for her skin.
She stepped out of the room quietly, the house still asleep, and walked to the gate. The morning air was warm already, scented with jasmine from the neighbour's wall. Her skirt brushed her calves, hair swaying against her back, bangles chiming softly with each step.
For the first time in years, Indhu walked like a woman who knew she was beautiful.
The butcher shop was only ten minutes away. The owner, Murugan uncle, was setting out the morning's fresh chicken when she arrived.
The butcher shop was already busy with early customers when Indhu walked in, the packet of money Rajan had left on the table tucked safely in her handbag. Murugan uncle was arranging fresh chicken on the wooden block, his knife flashing in the morning light.
He looked up, did a small double-take, and broke into a wide grin.
“Ayyo, Leka ma! Today you came instead of Amma?” he called, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Looking so grown-up only! When did you become this big?”
Indhu froze for half a second, then felt heat rush to her cheeks—not embarrassment, but a sudden, dizzying joy.
He thinks I'm Leka. He really thinks I'm nineteen.
She laughed, soft and startled, the sound lighter than anything that had left her mouth in years.
“Uncle, it's me only—Indhu,” she said, but her voice carried a teasing lilt, as if she wasn't quite ready to correct him yet.
Murugan uncle blinked, leaned forward, squinted, then slapped the counter with delight.
“Ayyo, sorry sorry! Indhu ma! I swear on the chicken I thought you were Leka! Same fair skin, same long hair, same walk—everything! What magic you did, looking like college girl today?”
The other customers turned, smiling. Someone's auntie nodded approvingly.
“Really, Indhu, looking twenty-five only!”
Indhu's cheeks burned, but the smile that spread across her face was unstoppable. She felt it in her chest, in her stomach, between her thighs—a warm, fluttering glow.
They see it. They really see it.
“Secret,” she said, tapping the side of her nose playfully, and handed over the order slip.
Murugan packed the chicken and mutton quickly, wrapping everything in banana leaf the old way.
“Rajan sir already called and paid, ma. Tell him everything fresh today.”
She took the heavy packet, the compliments still ringing in her ears, and walked out into the sunshine with her head higher than it had been in twenty years.
Every step home felt lighter. The pleated ankle-length skirt swished around her calves, her loose hair bounced against her back, the faint scent of kajal and rose lipstick trailed behind her like a new perfume.
For the first time in forever, Indhu walked like a woman who had been told—out loud, by strangers—that she was beautiful.
And she believed them.
She walked home faster, the packet swinging at her side, sunlight catching in her hair, bangles singing, every step lighter than the last.
The gate creaked open. The house was still quiet.
She slipped inside, set the meat in the fridge, and started the coffee—rich, strong filter coffee that would wake her children gently.
Today felt like the first day of something new.
And in the bedroom, Karthik stirred in his sleep, dreaming of rose-gold shimmer and a woman who finally knew she was allowed to shine.
--------------------------------------------------
Indhu stepped back into the quiet house, the meat packet cool against her hip, the butcher's words still dancing in her head.
College girl. Twenty-five only.
She felt them in every step, in the soft swish of the ankle-length skirt, in the way her loose hair brushed her bare arms.
She set the packet in the fridge and started the coffee—rich decoction dripping slow and dark into the steel filter, the smell filling the house like a promise.
First she carried a glass to the bedroom.
Karthik was still asleep on his side, one arm flung across the empty space where she had been, face soft and boyish. The sight made her heart do that funny flip again—half mother, half something she still refused to name.
She sat gently on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder.
“Kanna… coffee.”
His eyes opened slowly, sleepy and warm, then widened the moment they focused on her.
For a long second he just stared—hair loose and shining, kajal lining her eyes, rose lipstick making her mouth look soft and full, the cream top and charcoal skirt hugging her in all the right places.
A slow, stunned smile spread across his face.
“Amma… good morning,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something else.
“You look… brand new.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them—like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was the most beautiful thing in the world—sent heat rushing through her chest and straight between her legs. Her pussy gave a helpless throb. She felt her nipples tighten against the cotton bra.
She handed him the coffee quickly, looking away so he wouldn't see the blush burning her cheeks.
“Drink before it gets cold.”
He sat up, took the glass, but his eyes never left her. He sipped slowly, openly admiring—her loose hair, the soft curve of her neck, the way the skirt dbangd over her thighs when she moved.
Indhu couldn't hold his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was too much—like he was memorising her, like he wanted to keep this version of her forever. She stood up too fast.
“I'll wake Leka.”
Leka stirred at the gentle shake, blinked, then sat up with a gasp.
“Amma! You look like my elder sister only! Seriously, what magic did you do last night?”
Indhu laughed, the sound shaky, and fled to the kitchen before either of them saw how deeply the compliments were affecting her.
The kitchen felt safe—familiar smells, familiar sounds. She started breakfast: soft idlies steaming, coconut chutney ground fresh, sambar bubbling with the sharp tang of tamarind.
Karthik finished his coffee and walked in quietly to put the glass in the sink. He stopped behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of him at her back.
She was stirring the sambar, the long spoon moving in slow circles, skirt swaying gently around her calves. From behind he could see the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her ass when she reached for the salt.
He felt alive in a way he never had—every nerve awake, every breath full of her.
He set the glass down and stepped closer, voice low.
“Amma… you really do look brand new today. Cute. Beautiful.”
She turned, startled, spoon dripping sambar onto the counter.
“Dei… stop it, you'll make me burn the food.”
But he didn't stop. The words kept coming, soft and honest.
“I mean it. The skirt, the hair, the kajal… everything. You look happy.”
The praise soaked into her like warm rain. She felt it in her breasts, in the sudden rush of wetness between her legs. She couldn't speak.
Then, without thinking—pure impulse—he slid his hands to her waist, fingers curling gently around the soft curve above her hips, and leaned in. One kiss on her cheek—soft, lingering. Another. A third, closer to the corner of her mouth.
Time stopped.
Indhu froze, breath caught, every nerve sparking where his lips touched her skin. His hands on her waist felt like brands—warm, possessive, perfect. For one endless second she leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut, body melting.
Then reality crashed back.
She opened her eyes and met his—dark, stunned, full of the same shock and hunger she felt.
The look lasted forever and not long enough. Powerful. Kajal-lined eyes locked on his, asking without words: What are you doing to me?
Karthik's heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't let go.
The soft jingle of Leka's anklets broke the spell—coming down the hallway.
They sprang apart like children caught stealing sweets.
Indhu turned back to the stove, hands shaking as she stirred nothing. Karthik grabbed a glass of water he didn't want, gulping it down to hide the flush on his face.
Leka bounced in, already changed into one of the new cotton pant-T-shirt sets—mint green, loose and cute.
“Breakfast smells amazing! I'm starving.”
Indhu forced a smile, voice only a little shaky.
“Go bathe first, kanna. Karthik, you too—go, both of you.”
Karthik escaped to the bedroom bathroom, heart still racing, the feel of her waist burned into his palms.
Leka chose the mint set and disappeared into the other bathroom.
Indhu stood alone in the kitchen, hand pressed to her cheek where his lips had been, feeling the warmth linger like a brand.
Breakfast was ready when they came back—Karthik in shorts and a loose T-shirt, Leka in her mint set, hair tied in a messy bun.
They ate together at the small table, sunlight pouring in, Leka chattering about college, Indhu and Karthik stealing glances across the idlies—quick, burning, full of everything they couldn't say.
The new clothes hung in the wardrobe like secrets.
And the day had only just begun.
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