07-12-2025, 05:27 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-12-2025, 05:29 AM by ashuezy2. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Scene 15 - The aftermath
The door of Trial Room 1 opened slowly to the world inside the little shop. I froze behind the mirror, heart pounding so hard and I was not prepared for the way they emerged.
Mom stepped out first. She didn’t see me. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes were somewhere far away, unfocused, like a woman walking out in a hurry. Her saree wasn’t sitting the way she had worn it earlier. The pallu had fallen out of place, and she pushed her pallu back onto her shoulder. Her hair, usually tight and disciplined, had loosened at the edges. She exhaled once a long quiet exhale and after that walked out of the shop with an unhurried confidence that did not belong to the mother I knew.
The bell tinkled softly as she vanished into the busy market. She did not look back. She did not see me standing there.
Raju came out next, head low, steps shaky. His shirt was wrinkled and he kept adjusting it like he wasn’t sure how it was supposed to sit anymore. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He brushed past the counter and disappeared into the storeroom.
Remo came out last. He paused in the doorway, just a beat, but enough to reset the entire room. Then he straightened his shirt, rolled his shoulders back, and became Remo again — the tailor, the professional, the man who controlled rooms by controlling himself.
When he finally looked up, his gaze met me. Calm. Steady. Already expecting.
I stepped forward, throat tight, blood hot and cold at the same time. “What is going on here?” I asked, voice raw.
Remo didn’t pretend. He didn’t soften it. He didn’t dance around me. “What you saw,” he said quietly, “is a part of her life she doesn’t share with anyone.”
“Why does she even come here?” my voice was sharper now, cracking under betrayal.
“Because this is the one place,” Remo said, “where she remembers she’s a person… not a parent, not a wife, not someone’s responsibility. A person with her own past.”
“How long has she been coming?” The words fell out like I was afraid of the answer.
“Years,” he said plainly. “Since before you even started college.”
My breath hitched. I stepped closer, eyes burning. “How do you know all this, Remo? How? You’re not her friend. You’re just a tailor.”
Remo’s jaw tightened. “I know it,” he said, “because she told me. Directly. Not with stories but with the way she walked in here one day and said she needed something stitched ‘for herself, not for the house.’”
He continued, voice firm and honest: “She wasn’t always like this. She had a different life once. A freer one. She didn’t lose it, it was taken from her by time, duty, and circumstances you don’t know about.”
I blinked hard. “Why would she tell you?”
“Because I’m the kind of person people talk to when they’re tired of lying to themselves,” Remo said simply. “No judgment. No consequences. Just a place where they can breathe.”
He stepped back, giving me space to absorb it. “Adults have complicated lives,” he added in a low, steady voice. “Much more complicated than what you saw today. Don’t judge her from outside the story. One day… you’ll understand why people find places to keep their truth.”
The weight of his words settled over me like dust after a collapse. Mom was gone. Raju was hiding. Remo was unshakable. And I stood alone in the middle of the shop, holding a truth I had not asked for: I did not know my mother. Not even close. For the first time, the world felt bigger, darker, and painfully real — and the curtain of Trial Room 1 swayed gently behind Remo, carrying the ghost of a secret I could never unsee.
Remo watched me digest the truth. Then, slowly, his serious face changed. That dark, hungry smirk returned to his lips. He walked past me to the front of the shop.
Click. He locked the main glass door. Snap. He turned the "Closed" sign outward.
He walked back to me. He didn't stop at a polite distance. He stepped right into my personal space.
"But you didn't run away, Ananya," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "You watched. You put your eye to the hole."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm.
"You judged her," Remo murmured, trailing his finger down my neck. "But you were wet watching her. Weren't you?"
I shivered. "Remo... don't."
"Don't what?" he teased. "Don't tell you the truth? That is a wild woman, Ananya. She takes what she wants. She takes two men at once because one isn't enough to fill her."
He grabbed my waist. He pulled me hard against his body. I could feel the heat radiating off him—the heat generated by my mother.
"Are you like her?" he asked, looking deep into my eyes. "Do you have that same fire inside? That same dirty hunger?"
I tried to push him away, but my hands just rested on his chest. I could smell it on him. Musk. Sweat. Sex. It was intoxicating.
"I... I am not like her," I stammered.
"Liar," Remo growled playfully.
He lifted his hand. He brought it to my face. He rubbed his thumb over my lower lip.
"Smell," he commanded.
I inhaled. His skin smelled of her. It smelled of the fluids I had seen flying in that room. It was disgusting, and yet, my body reacted violently. My knees went weak.
"You want to know what she tasted?" Remo asked.
He didn't wait. He crushed his mouth against mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was possessive. He forced my lips open. His tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of the shop, tasting of the secret acts he had just performed.
I moaned into his mouth. I didn't fight. I grabbed his hair. I kissed him back, desperate to taste the same pleasure that had made my mother scream.
He pulled back, breathless. He grabbed my ass with both hands, squeezing the flesh hard through my kurta.
"You feel just as soft as her," he whispered in my ear. "But tighter. Much tighter."
He ground his hips against mine. I felt his erection—the same one that had just been inside my mother—pressing against my stomach.
"Let's see if you can scream louder than her," he challenged, biting my neck. "Trial Room 1 is still warm, Ananya. It’s waiting for you."
I looked at the curtain where my mother had just been ruined. Then I looked at Remo.
"Show me," I whispered. "Show me everything you did to her."
Remo watched me with that dark, knowing smile. He didn't know Sunita was my mother. He just thought I was a curious girl fascinated by an older woman’s depravity.
"Go on," he whispered, pointing to the cubicle. "You wanted to see everything? Go inside. It’s still warm."
I stepped forward. My legs felt heavy. I pushed aside and walked into Trial Room 1.
The heat hit me instantly. It wasn't just the lack of ventilation. It was the residual body heat of three people who had been thrashing against each other for twenty minutes. It felt suffocating, like stepping into a used mouth.
I looked down.
The floor was a disaster. The dust was disturbed, scuffed by shoes and knees. But it was the wetness that made my stomach turn.
There were droplets of white fluid on the wooden floorboards—spilled seed that hadn't made it inside. A damp, dark patch stained the wood where my mother had collapsed.
I looked at the mirror.
It was fogged up with condensation and sweat. But lower down, at hip height, there were smudges. Oily streaks where skin had pressed against glass. And there, right in the center, was a smear of white residue—the aftermath of Raju’s finish on her face, wiped off and flung aside.
I stared at a discarded tissue in the corner, crumpled and soaked.
Remo leaned in from the doorway, misinterpreting my silence.
"She is a wild one, that Sunita," he chuckled, admiring the mess. "She took everything we had and still walked out walking straight."
He was comparing me to her. He thought it was an aspirational game. He didn't know that the "wild one" was the woman who packed my lunchbox. He didn't know that the fluids on the floor belonged to the woman who tucked me in at night.
It was too much. The visual of the white stains, the smell of the sex, the echo of her screams that still seemed to bounce off the walls—it crashed down on me.
I couldn't breathe. The arousal died, replaced by a violent wave of nausea.
"I... I can't," I choked out.
Remo reached for me, thinking I was just overwhelmed by the scent. "It’s okay, Ananya. It’s just the smell of—"
"No!" I screamed.
I shoved past him. I didn't look back at the mirror. I didn't look at Remo’s confused face. I ran.
I burst out of the trial room, stumbled through the shop, and pushed open the glass door.
The bell jingled cheerfully behind me as I fled into the noisy, dusty street, gasping for air that didn't smell like my mother’s sins.
The door of Trial Room 1 opened slowly to the world inside the little shop. I froze behind the mirror, heart pounding so hard and I was not prepared for the way they emerged.
Mom stepped out first. She didn’t see me. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes were somewhere far away, unfocused, like a woman walking out in a hurry. Her saree wasn’t sitting the way she had worn it earlier. The pallu had fallen out of place, and she pushed her pallu back onto her shoulder. Her hair, usually tight and disciplined, had loosened at the edges. She exhaled once a long quiet exhale and after that walked out of the shop with an unhurried confidence that did not belong to the mother I knew.
The bell tinkled softly as she vanished into the busy market. She did not look back. She did not see me standing there.
Raju came out next, head low, steps shaky. His shirt was wrinkled and he kept adjusting it like he wasn’t sure how it was supposed to sit anymore. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He brushed past the counter and disappeared into the storeroom.
Remo came out last. He paused in the doorway, just a beat, but enough to reset the entire room. Then he straightened his shirt, rolled his shoulders back, and became Remo again — the tailor, the professional, the man who controlled rooms by controlling himself.
When he finally looked up, his gaze met me. Calm. Steady. Already expecting.
I stepped forward, throat tight, blood hot and cold at the same time. “What is going on here?” I asked, voice raw.
Remo didn’t pretend. He didn’t soften it. He didn’t dance around me. “What you saw,” he said quietly, “is a part of her life she doesn’t share with anyone.”
“Why does she even come here?” my voice was sharper now, cracking under betrayal.
“Because this is the one place,” Remo said, “where she remembers she’s a person… not a parent, not a wife, not someone’s responsibility. A person with her own past.”
“How long has she been coming?” The words fell out like I was afraid of the answer.
“Years,” he said plainly. “Since before you even started college.”
My breath hitched. I stepped closer, eyes burning. “How do you know all this, Remo? How? You’re not her friend. You’re just a tailor.”
Remo’s jaw tightened. “I know it,” he said, “because she told me. Directly. Not with stories but with the way she walked in here one day and said she needed something stitched ‘for herself, not for the house.’”
He continued, voice firm and honest: “She wasn’t always like this. She had a different life once. A freer one. She didn’t lose it, it was taken from her by time, duty, and circumstances you don’t know about.”
I blinked hard. “Why would she tell you?”
“Because I’m the kind of person people talk to when they’re tired of lying to themselves,” Remo said simply. “No judgment. No consequences. Just a place where they can breathe.”
He stepped back, giving me space to absorb it. “Adults have complicated lives,” he added in a low, steady voice. “Much more complicated than what you saw today. Don’t judge her from outside the story. One day… you’ll understand why people find places to keep their truth.”
The weight of his words settled over me like dust after a collapse. Mom was gone. Raju was hiding. Remo was unshakable. And I stood alone in the middle of the shop, holding a truth I had not asked for: I did not know my mother. Not even close. For the first time, the world felt bigger, darker, and painfully real — and the curtain of Trial Room 1 swayed gently behind Remo, carrying the ghost of a secret I could never unsee.
Remo watched me digest the truth. Then, slowly, his serious face changed. That dark, hungry smirk returned to his lips. He walked past me to the front of the shop.
Click. He locked the main glass door. Snap. He turned the "Closed" sign outward.
He walked back to me. He didn't stop at a polite distance. He stepped right into my personal space.
"But you didn't run away, Ananya," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "You watched. You put your eye to the hole."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm.
"You judged her," Remo murmured, trailing his finger down my neck. "But you were wet watching her. Weren't you?"
I shivered. "Remo... don't."
"Don't what?" he teased. "Don't tell you the truth? That is a wild woman, Ananya. She takes what she wants. She takes two men at once because one isn't enough to fill her."
He grabbed my waist. He pulled me hard against his body. I could feel the heat radiating off him—the heat generated by my mother.
"Are you like her?" he asked, looking deep into my eyes. "Do you have that same fire inside? That same dirty hunger?"
I tried to push him away, but my hands just rested on his chest. I could smell it on him. Musk. Sweat. Sex. It was intoxicating.
"I... I am not like her," I stammered.
"Liar," Remo growled playfully.
He lifted his hand. He brought it to my face. He rubbed his thumb over my lower lip.
"Smell," he commanded.
I inhaled. His skin smelled of her. It smelled of the fluids I had seen flying in that room. It was disgusting, and yet, my body reacted violently. My knees went weak.
"You want to know what she tasted?" Remo asked.
He didn't wait. He crushed his mouth against mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was possessive. He forced my lips open. His tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of the shop, tasting of the secret acts he had just performed.
I moaned into his mouth. I didn't fight. I grabbed his hair. I kissed him back, desperate to taste the same pleasure that had made my mother scream.
He pulled back, breathless. He grabbed my ass with both hands, squeezing the flesh hard through my kurta.
"You feel just as soft as her," he whispered in my ear. "But tighter. Much tighter."
He ground his hips against mine. I felt his erection—the same one that had just been inside my mother—pressing against my stomach.
"Let's see if you can scream louder than her," he challenged, biting my neck. "Trial Room 1 is still warm, Ananya. It’s waiting for you."
I looked at the curtain where my mother had just been ruined. Then I looked at Remo.
"Show me," I whispered. "Show me everything you did to her."
Remo watched me with that dark, knowing smile. He didn't know Sunita was my mother. He just thought I was a curious girl fascinated by an older woman’s depravity.
"Go on," he whispered, pointing to the cubicle. "You wanted to see everything? Go inside. It’s still warm."
I stepped forward. My legs felt heavy. I pushed aside and walked into Trial Room 1.
The heat hit me instantly. It wasn't just the lack of ventilation. It was the residual body heat of three people who had been thrashing against each other for twenty minutes. It felt suffocating, like stepping into a used mouth.
I looked down.
The floor was a disaster. The dust was disturbed, scuffed by shoes and knees. But it was the wetness that made my stomach turn.
There were droplets of white fluid on the wooden floorboards—spilled seed that hadn't made it inside. A damp, dark patch stained the wood where my mother had collapsed.
I looked at the mirror.
It was fogged up with condensation and sweat. But lower down, at hip height, there were smudges. Oily streaks where skin had pressed against glass. And there, right in the center, was a smear of white residue—the aftermath of Raju’s finish on her face, wiped off and flung aside.
I stared at a discarded tissue in the corner, crumpled and soaked.
Remo leaned in from the doorway, misinterpreting my silence.
"She is a wild one, that Sunita," he chuckled, admiring the mess. "She took everything we had and still walked out walking straight."
He was comparing me to her. He thought it was an aspirational game. He didn't know that the "wild one" was the woman who packed my lunchbox. He didn't know that the fluids on the floor belonged to the woman who tucked me in at night.
It was too much. The visual of the white stains, the smell of the sex, the echo of her screams that still seemed to bounce off the walls—it crashed down on me.
I couldn't breathe. The arousal died, replaced by a violent wave of nausea.
"I... I can't," I choked out.
Remo reached for me, thinking I was just overwhelmed by the scent. "It’s okay, Ananya. It’s just the smell of—"
"No!" I screamed.
I shoved past him. I didn't look back at the mirror. I didn't look at Remo’s confused face. I ran.
I burst out of the trial room, stumbled through the shop, and pushed open the glass door.
The bell jingled cheerfully behind me as I fled into the noisy, dusty street, gasping for air that didn't smell like my mother’s sins.
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