07-12-2025, 03:54 PM
(This post was last modified: 26-12-2025, 01:36 PM by nivithenaughty. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
PART 7
The sun was already a hammer by ten, the red soil ground behind the temple baking like a brick kiln. Karthik grabbed his bat and old jersey, the fabric stiff with yesterday's sweat, and slipped out the back door while Indhu was still unpacking the morning's chicken and mutton in the kitchen.
The smell of raw meat and blood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint jasmine from her skin as she hummed a soft Tamil melody under her breath. Leka was in the bathroom, splashing water and singing off-key, her voice echoing through the house like a carefree bird.
He jogged the short distance to the ground, heart pounding not just from the run but from the morning's heat still simmering in his veins. The way Amma had looked in that charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, kajal making her eyes deep and mysterious, rose lipstick on her soft mouth—the image was burned into him, a constant flicker behind his eyelids.
And the kiss in the kitchen, her lips on his cheek, warm and grateful, whispering “thank you” like it was a secret meant only for him. His cock gave a faint twitch at the memory, guilt and excitement tangling in his gut as he arrived at the lot.
The boys were already there—twelve of them, two teams, the usual mix of college friends and area kids with mismatched jerseys and shared bats. The ground was a patch of cracked red earth ringed by neem trees and a crumbling temple wall, the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of sweat. They tossed for batting—Karthik's team won. He went in third, bat heavy in his hands, the bowler a lanky kid named Suresh who thought he was Jasprit Bumrah.
The first ball came fast—crack, Karthik swung, and it sailed over the boundary for six. The boys roared, fists pumping, dust kicking up in celebration. Another ball, another six—straight over the neem trees, lost in the bushes beyond. Four in the over, the bowler cursing, his friends slapping Karthik's back so hard it stung.
He felt alive then—powerful, the world sharp and bright, every muscle singing. The game flowed around him: catches dropped, runs stolen, shouts of “Howzat!” echoing off the temple stones. He bowled later—three wickets in two overs, the ball spinning wickedly on the dry soil. Victory tasted sweet, even if it was just a neighbourhood match with no prize but bragging rights.
But underneath the adrenaline, the morning lingered. Every time he wiped sweat from his brow, he remembered her cheek against his, the softness of her skin, the way her body had yielded when he held her waist. His cock stirred again, guilty heat pooling low. He pushed it down, focused on the game, but it waited like a shadow.
Break came after the first innings. They collapsed in the tamarind shade, passing around a single bottle of warm Bisleri, the water tasting like plastic and relief.
The talk turned, as it always did when the adults weren't around, to girls and porn.
“Dei Vignesh, that new one you downloaded yesterday—how was it?” Manoj asked, leaning back against the tree trunk, jersey open to his chest.
Vignesh grinned wide, teeth white against his dark skin. “Machan, fire only. College girl and her boyfriend's friend—full bold action. Ten minutes non-stop, her moaning like crazy. I came twice watching.”
The group erupted in laughter, crude gestures, slaps on knees. “Send da! Send!”
They turned to Karthik, sprawled on the grass, jersey soaked, bat across his knees.
“Still acting saint, da? Never watched even one video?” Vignesh teased, phone already out.
Karthik shrugged, trying to look bored, heart not in it. “Not interested.”
The boys groaned. “Come on, Karthik! This one will change you. Trust me.”
He opened his mouth to refuse—same as always, same excuse. But the words stuck.
The morning was too fresh: Amma in the skirt and top, hair loose, kajal eyes, rose lips; the kitchen hug, his hands on her waist, the soft give of her body against his; the way she had looked at him, eyes wide and dark, like she saw him as something new. His cock stirred again, a low ache that wouldn't leave. The tension had been building all morning, a fire banked but not out.
“Fine,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “Send.”
Vignesh whooped and airdropped the video. Then, because the boys were relentless, he sent four more—“last week's collection, da, don't miss. Full fire.”
Karthik accepted, locked them in a private folder titled “Physics Notes,” and shoved the phone deep in his pocket like it burned.
The rest of the match passed in a haze. He bowled his overs, took three wickets, but his arm felt heavy, mind already pulling him home.
By one-thirty he was back, sweat-dried and dusty, the phone like a grenade in his shorts.
Lunch was chicken curry with rice, the meat from the morning's shop simmering in thick gravy with coconut and spices. Indhu served, moving between stove and table in the ankle-length charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, the faint rose of lipstick making her mouth look kissable. She leaned over to fill his plate, and he caught the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her breasts, the gentle bounce when she laughed at something Leka said.
Every movement felt like a tease—her hands on the spoon, stirring slow circles; the way she licked a drop of curry from her finger, lips wrapping around it; the soft sway of her ass when she turned back to the stove.
His cock thickened under the table, hard and aching. He shifted, crossing his legs, guilt and hunger twisting in his gut. This is Amma. Stop. But the urge was stronger, darker, pulling him under.
Indhu felt his eyes on her—steady, burning—and her own body betrayed her with a warm flush, nipples tightening, a slick heat starting between her legs. She kept her smile normal, voice light, but inside she was trembling.
Lunch ended. Plates cleared. The familiar Sunday afternoon laziness settled over the house.
They migrated to the bedroom for the ritual movie-and-nap. Leka picked a silly Tamil comedy on the laptop, propped it on the pillow, and crawled into her side still in the mint-green cotton set. Indhu lay in the middle, skirt smoothed down to her ankles, hair fanned across the pillow. Karthik took the right edge in his shorts and T-shirt, the phone heavy in his pocket like a live coal.
The movie played—loud songs, louder jokes—but Karthik heard none of it.
Indhu's arm brushed his when she shifted.
Her skirt rode an inch higher, revealing the smooth skin of her ankle, the delicate bone of her foot.
Her breathing was soft and even, lips slightly parted, the faint rose of yesterday's lipstick still there.
His cock was fully hard now, aching against the thin fabric of his shorts. Every breath felt like fire. The videos waited in his phone—five of them, forbidden, easy. Just an excuse to touch himself, to let go of the pressure that had been building since yesterday.
Leka's laughter faded into soft snores within twenty minutes.
Indhu's eyes closed soon after, lashes dark against her cheeks, one hand curled loosely near his on the sheet.
Karthik lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, cock throbbing with every heartbeat.
He waited.
Waited for the room to go completely quiet.
Waited for the moment he could finally, carefully, reach for his phone.
The house asleep around him, the videos one tap away, and the woman who started everything breathing softly inches from his reach.
The bedroom was perfectly quiet.
Leka's soft snores on the left.
Indhu's slow, even breathing in the middle, her skirt still smoothed down to her ankles, one hand curled loosely near where his had been minutes ago.
The laptop screen had gone dark, the comedy long forgotten.
Karthik lay rigid, heart hammering so hard he was sure it would wake them. His cock throbbed against his shorts, painful, insistent, impossible to ignore any longer. The phone in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole straight through the fabric.
He couldn't stay here. Not beside her. Not with the memory of her body in that hug, her waist under his hands, her scent still in his lungs.
Slowly, carefully, he slid from the bed—inch by inch, the mattress barely dipping. His feet touched the cool floor. He stood, breath held, and padded out of the room on silent feet, phone clenched in his fist.
The wardrobe-room door closed behind him with the softest click. He locked it, leaned back against the wood for a second, eyes squeezed shut.
Then he moved to the attached bathroom, shut that door too, and lowered the western toilet lid. He sat, shorts and underwear shoved down to his ankles in one desperate motion.
His cock sprang free—already ninety percent hard, 6.5 inches of thick, dark, aching need, the head slick with pre-cum. He wrapped his shaking hand around it, thumb brushing the sensitive underside, and nearly groaned aloud.
Phone in the other hand. Earphones in—volume low, but enough.
First video.
Latina woman—thick, curvy, massive tits spilling out of a tiny red bra, ass like two perfect globes in a thong. Young guy behind her, hands on her hips. The camera zoomed in as she dropped to her knees.
Karthik's breath hitched.
She took the guy in her mouth—slow, wet, sloppy, lips stretching wide, tongue swirling. The sounds—wet sucking, soft moans, the guy's low groan—filled his ears.
His hand moved without permission, stroking in time with her head. Up, down, faster. The woman's eyes looked straight into the camera, like she was sucking him.
He bit his lip hard to stay quiet.
Cowgirl next—she climbed on, ass bouncing, tits swinging, riding hard. The slap of skin on skin, her moans rising.
Karthik's hips lifted off the seat, hand flying now, pressure building fast and brutal.
Video two loaded automatically.
Petite teen this time—tiny waist, small tits, huge innocent eyes. Massive guy behind her, dwarfing her. She knelt, took him in her mouth—struggling, gagging, spit dripping. Then he laid her back, spread her legs, and licked—slow, filthy circles around her clit, tongue dipping inside.
Karthik lost it.
The sight of that tongue on her pussy, the way she writhed and begged, the wet sounds—he came hard, cock pulsing in his fist, thick ropes shooting against the bathroom wall, splattering the tiles. His whole body shook, a low, choked groan escaping despite his clenched teeth.
He sat there panting, forehead against the cool wall, cum dripping down the tiles, guilt and relief crashing together in his chest.
First real porn. First real orgasm to it.
He wiped himself with toilet paper, flushed the evidence, cleaned the wall with shaking hands.
The third video thumbnail waited.
He told himself he was done. Soft now, spent, guilty.
But curiosity—dark, hungry—pulled him back.
Just a glimpse, he thought.
He clicked.
And everything changed.
The third video thumbnail loaded.
Title in bold white letters:
Stepmom Seductions – India Summer
Karthik's thumb hovered, breath caught in his throat.
The freeze-frame showed a woman in black lace lingerie—bra barely containing full, dark-nippled breasts, matching panties cut high on the hips, sheer stockings held up by garter belts, heels sharp and dangerous. Long dark hair, fair skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that looked straight into the camera like she knew every filthy thought you'd ever had.
The resemblance hit him like a punch to the gut.
Same slim waist.
Same flared hips.
Same long legs.
Same elegant neck and collarbones.
Same knowing half-smile.
India Summer looked like Indhu grown bolder, wilder, unleashed.
His cock—soft only seconds ago—surged back to life, thickening, lengthening, veins standing out angry and dark. Harder than the first two videos combined. Harder than he had ever been in his life. Six and a half inches stretched to its absolute limit, the head flushed deep red, slick and shining.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
In his head the woman on the screen became Amma—Amma in black lace and stockings, garter straps framing the soft mound he had glimpsed that dawn, nipples dark against sheer fabric, eyes heavy with want.
His hand moved on its own, wrapping around his cock again, stroking slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the scene that began to play.
India Summer walked into the frame, hips swaying, voice low and teasing.
“You've been watching me, haven't you?”
Karthik's breath stuttered.
It was Indhu's voice in his head—soft, knowing, a little dangerous.
She dropped to her knees in front of the young guy on the couch, fingers undoing his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera zoomed in as she took him in her mouth—slow, wet, loving, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked up at him the whole time.
Karthik's hand flew now, grip tight, hips lifting off the toilet seat.
In his mind it was Amma's mouth—warm, soft, perfect—taking him deep, her loose hair falling forward, kajal-smudged eyes looking up at him with love and lust.
The actress climbed onto the guy's face next, thighs framing his head, lace panties pulled aside. She ground down slowly, hips rolling, moaning as his tongue licked her.
Karthik lost it.
He pictured Indhu above him—skirt pushed up, no panties, her pussy bare and wet and glistening, lowering herself onto his mouth, thighs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair, riding his tongue while she whispered his name.
His cock throbbed, impossibly hard, veins straining, every nerve on fire.
The scene shifted—doggy style, her back arched, ass high, taking every thrust with gasps and cries.
Karthik saw Amma bent over their own bed, skirt flipped up, his hands on her hips, sliding into her again and again, her voice breaking on his name.
Final scene: she knelt again, mouth open, taking rope after rope of cum across her tongue, swallowing with a slow, satisfied smile.
Karthik came harder than he ever had in his life—thick pulses shooting across his fist, splattering the bathroom wall, his stomach, the floor. His whole body shook, vision whiting out, a low, broken groan tearing from his throat.
He sat there for minutes—panting, spent, cum cooling on his skin, guilt crashing in like a tidal wave.
He had just jerked off—twice—imagining his own mother in porn.
Imagining her mouth on him.
Her pussy on his tongue.
Her body taking him inside.
He deleted the first two videos with shaking fingers.
The third one—Stepmom Seductions—he moved to a hidden folder titled “Private.”
He would find more of her.
He needed to.
He cleaned himself, flushed the evidence, washed his hands until they were raw.
When he slipped back into the bedroom, Indhu was still sleeping peacefully on her side, skirt smoothed down, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, looking innocent and beautiful and utterly untouchable.
He lay down on the edge, as far from her as the bed allowed, guilt choking him.
His cock—traitor that it was—gave one last weak twitch at the sight of her.
He turned his back to her, pulled the sheet up to his chin, and stared at the wall until sleep finally dragged him under.
In his dreams India Summer wore Indhu's face, and Indhu wore black lace, and neither of them ever looked away.
The sun was already a hammer by ten, the red soil ground behind the temple baking like a brick kiln. Karthik grabbed his bat and old jersey, the fabric stiff with yesterday's sweat, and slipped out the back door while Indhu was still unpacking the morning's chicken and mutton in the kitchen.
The smell of raw meat and blood lingered in the air, mixing with the faint jasmine from her skin as she hummed a soft Tamil melody under her breath. Leka was in the bathroom, splashing water and singing off-key, her voice echoing through the house like a carefree bird.
He jogged the short distance to the ground, heart pounding not just from the run but from the morning's heat still simmering in his veins. The way Amma had looked in that charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, kajal making her eyes deep and mysterious, rose lipstick on her soft mouth—the image was burned into him, a constant flicker behind his eyelids.
And the kiss in the kitchen, her lips on his cheek, warm and grateful, whispering “thank you” like it was a secret meant only for him. His cock gave a faint twitch at the memory, guilt and excitement tangling in his gut as he arrived at the lot.
The boys were already there—twelve of them, two teams, the usual mix of college friends and area kids with mismatched jerseys and shared bats. The ground was a patch of cracked red earth ringed by neem trees and a crumbling temple wall, the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of sweat. They tossed for batting—Karthik's team won. He went in third, bat heavy in his hands, the bowler a lanky kid named Suresh who thought he was Jasprit Bumrah.
The first ball came fast—crack, Karthik swung, and it sailed over the boundary for six. The boys roared, fists pumping, dust kicking up in celebration. Another ball, another six—straight over the neem trees, lost in the bushes beyond. Four in the over, the bowler cursing, his friends slapping Karthik's back so hard it stung.
He felt alive then—powerful, the world sharp and bright, every muscle singing. The game flowed around him: catches dropped, runs stolen, shouts of “Howzat!” echoing off the temple stones. He bowled later—three wickets in two overs, the ball spinning wickedly on the dry soil. Victory tasted sweet, even if it was just a neighbourhood match with no prize but bragging rights.
But underneath the adrenaline, the morning lingered. Every time he wiped sweat from his brow, he remembered her cheek against his, the softness of her skin, the way her body had yielded when he held her waist. His cock stirred again, guilty heat pooling low. He pushed it down, focused on the game, but it waited like a shadow.
Break came after the first innings. They collapsed in the tamarind shade, passing around a single bottle of warm Bisleri, the water tasting like plastic and relief.
The talk turned, as it always did when the adults weren't around, to girls and porn.
“Dei Vignesh, that new one you downloaded yesterday—how was it?” Manoj asked, leaning back against the tree trunk, jersey open to his chest.
Vignesh grinned wide, teeth white against his dark skin. “Machan, fire only. College girl and her boyfriend's friend—full bold action. Ten minutes non-stop, her moaning like crazy. I came twice watching.”
The group erupted in laughter, crude gestures, slaps on knees. “Send da! Send!”
They turned to Karthik, sprawled on the grass, jersey soaked, bat across his knees.
“Still acting saint, da? Never watched even one video?” Vignesh teased, phone already out.
Karthik shrugged, trying to look bored, heart not in it. “Not interested.”
The boys groaned. “Come on, Karthik! This one will change you. Trust me.”
He opened his mouth to refuse—same as always, same excuse. But the words stuck.
The morning was too fresh: Amma in the skirt and top, hair loose, kajal eyes, rose lips; the kitchen hug, his hands on her waist, the soft give of her body against his; the way she had looked at him, eyes wide and dark, like she saw him as something new. His cock stirred again, a low ache that wouldn't leave. The tension had been building all morning, a fire banked but not out.
“Fine,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “Send.”
Vignesh whooped and airdropped the video. Then, because the boys were relentless, he sent four more—“last week's collection, da, don't miss. Full fire.”
Karthik accepted, locked them in a private folder titled “Physics Notes,” and shoved the phone deep in his pocket like it burned.
The rest of the match passed in a haze. He bowled his overs, took three wickets, but his arm felt heavy, mind already pulling him home.
By one-thirty he was back, sweat-dried and dusty, the phone like a grenade in his shorts.
Lunch was chicken curry with rice, the meat from the morning's shop simmering in thick gravy with coconut and spices. Indhu served, moving between stove and table in the ankle-length charcoal skirt and cream top, hair loose and flowing, the faint rose of lipstick making her mouth look kissable. She leaned over to fill his plate, and he caught the curve of her waist, the way the fabric pulled slightly across her breasts, the gentle bounce when she laughed at something Leka said.
Every movement felt like a tease—her hands on the spoon, stirring slow circles; the way she licked a drop of curry from her finger, lips wrapping around it; the soft sway of her ass when she turned back to the stove.
His cock thickened under the table, hard and aching. He shifted, crossing his legs, guilt and hunger twisting in his gut. This is Amma. Stop. But the urge was stronger, darker, pulling him under.
Indhu felt his eyes on her—steady, burning—and her own body betrayed her with a warm flush, nipples tightening, a slick heat starting between her legs. She kept her smile normal, voice light, but inside she was trembling.
Lunch ended. Plates cleared. The familiar Sunday afternoon laziness settled over the house.
They migrated to the bedroom for the ritual movie-and-nap. Leka picked a silly Tamil comedy on the laptop, propped it on the pillow, and crawled into her side still in the mint-green cotton set. Indhu lay in the middle, skirt smoothed down to her ankles, hair fanned across the pillow. Karthik took the right edge in his shorts and T-shirt, the phone heavy in his pocket like a live coal.
The movie played—loud songs, louder jokes—but Karthik heard none of it.
Indhu's arm brushed his when she shifted.
Her skirt rode an inch higher, revealing the smooth skin of her ankle, the delicate bone of her foot.
Her breathing was soft and even, lips slightly parted, the faint rose of yesterday's lipstick still there.
His cock was fully hard now, aching against the thin fabric of his shorts. Every breath felt like fire. The videos waited in his phone—five of them, forbidden, easy. Just an excuse to touch himself, to let go of the pressure that had been building since yesterday.
Leka's laughter faded into soft snores within twenty minutes.
Indhu's eyes closed soon after, lashes dark against her cheeks, one hand curled loosely near his on the sheet.
Karthik lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, cock throbbing with every heartbeat.
He waited.
Waited for the room to go completely quiet.
Waited for the moment he could finally, carefully, reach for his phone.
The house asleep around him, the videos one tap away, and the woman who started everything breathing softly inches from his reach.
The bedroom was perfectly quiet.
Leka's soft snores on the left.
Indhu's slow, even breathing in the middle, her skirt still smoothed down to her ankles, one hand curled loosely near where his had been minutes ago.
The laptop screen had gone dark, the comedy long forgotten.
Karthik lay rigid, heart hammering so hard he was sure it would wake them. His cock throbbed against his shorts, painful, insistent, impossible to ignore any longer. The phone in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole straight through the fabric.
He couldn't stay here. Not beside her. Not with the memory of her body in that hug, her waist under his hands, her scent still in his lungs.
Slowly, carefully, he slid from the bed—inch by inch, the mattress barely dipping. His feet touched the cool floor. He stood, breath held, and padded out of the room on silent feet, phone clenched in his fist.
The wardrobe-room door closed behind him with the softest click. He locked it, leaned back against the wood for a second, eyes squeezed shut.
Then he moved to the attached bathroom, shut that door too, and lowered the western toilet lid. He sat, shorts and underwear shoved down to his ankles in one desperate motion.
His cock sprang free—already ninety percent hard, 6.5 inches of thick, dark, aching need, the head slick with pre-cum. He wrapped his shaking hand around it, thumb brushing the sensitive underside, and nearly groaned aloud.
Phone in the other hand. Earphones in—volume low, but enough.
First video.
Latina woman—thick, curvy, massive tits spilling out of a tiny red bra, ass like two perfect globes in a thong. Young guy behind her, hands on her hips. The camera zoomed in as she dropped to her knees.
Karthik's breath hitched.
She took the guy in her mouth—slow, wet, sloppy, lips stretching wide, tongue swirling. The sounds—wet sucking, soft moans, the guy's low groan—filled his ears.
His hand moved without permission, stroking in time with her head. Up, down, faster. The woman's eyes looked straight into the camera, like she was sucking him.
He bit his lip hard to stay quiet.
Cowgirl next—she climbed on, ass bouncing, tits swinging, riding hard. The slap of skin on skin, her moans rising.
Karthik's hips lifted off the seat, hand flying now, pressure building fast and brutal.
Video two loaded automatically.
Petite teen this time—tiny waist, small tits, huge innocent eyes. Massive guy behind her, dwarfing her. She knelt, took him in her mouth—struggling, gagging, spit dripping. Then he laid her back, spread her legs, and licked—slow, filthy circles around her clit, tongue dipping inside.
Karthik lost it.
The sight of that tongue on her pussy, the way she writhed and begged, the wet sounds—he came hard, cock pulsing in his fist, thick ropes shooting against the bathroom wall, splattering the tiles. His whole body shook, a low, choked groan escaping despite his clenched teeth.
He sat there panting, forehead against the cool wall, cum dripping down the tiles, guilt and relief crashing together in his chest.
First real porn. First real orgasm to it.
He wiped himself with toilet paper, flushed the evidence, cleaned the wall with shaking hands.
The third video thumbnail waited.
He told himself he was done. Soft now, spent, guilty.
But curiosity—dark, hungry—pulled him back.
Just a glimpse, he thought.
He clicked.
And everything changed.
The third video thumbnail loaded.
Title in bold white letters:
Stepmom Seductions – India Summer
Karthik's thumb hovered, breath caught in his throat.
The freeze-frame showed a woman in black lace lingerie—bra barely containing full, dark-nippled breasts, matching panties cut high on the hips, sheer stockings held up by garter belts, heels sharp and dangerous. Long dark hair, fair skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that looked straight into the camera like she knew every filthy thought you'd ever had.
The resemblance hit him like a punch to the gut.
Same slim waist.
Same flared hips.
Same long legs.
Same elegant neck and collarbones.
Same knowing half-smile.
India Summer looked like Indhu grown bolder, wilder, unleashed.
His cock—soft only seconds ago—surged back to life, thickening, lengthening, veins standing out angry and dark. Harder than the first two videos combined. Harder than he had ever been in his life. Six and a half inches stretched to its absolute limit, the head flushed deep red, slick and shining.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
In his head the woman on the screen became Amma—Amma in black lace and stockings, garter straps framing the soft mound he had glimpsed that dawn, nipples dark against sheer fabric, eyes heavy with want.
His hand moved on its own, wrapping around his cock again, stroking slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the scene that began to play.
India Summer walked into the frame, hips swaying, voice low and teasing.
“You've been watching me, haven't you?”
Karthik's breath stuttered.
It was Indhu's voice in his head—soft, knowing, a little dangerous.
She dropped to her knees in front of the young guy on the couch, fingers undoing his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera zoomed in as she took him in her mouth—slow, wet, loving, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked up at him the whole time.
Karthik's hand flew now, grip tight, hips lifting off the toilet seat.
In his mind it was Amma's mouth—warm, soft, perfect—taking him deep, her loose hair falling forward, kajal-smudged eyes looking up at him with love and lust.
The actress climbed onto the guy's face next, thighs framing his head, lace panties pulled aside. She ground down slowly, hips rolling, moaning as his tongue licked her.
Karthik lost it.
He pictured Indhu above him—skirt pushed up, no panties, her pussy bare and wet and glistening, lowering herself onto his mouth, thighs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair, riding his tongue while she whispered his name.
His cock throbbed, impossibly hard, veins straining, every nerve on fire.
The scene shifted—doggy style, her back arched, ass high, taking every thrust with gasps and cries.
Karthik saw Amma bent over their own bed, skirt flipped up, his hands on her hips, sliding into her again and again, her voice breaking on his name.
Final scene: she knelt again, mouth open, taking rope after rope of cum across her tongue, swallowing with a slow, satisfied smile.
Karthik came harder than he ever had in his life—thick pulses shooting across his fist, splattering the bathroom wall, his stomach, the floor. His whole body shook, vision whiting out, a low, broken groan tearing from his throat.
He sat there for minutes—panting, spent, cum cooling on his skin, guilt crashing in like a tidal wave.
He had just jerked off—twice—imagining his own mother in porn.
Imagining her mouth on him.
Her pussy on his tongue.
Her body taking him inside.
He deleted the first two videos with shaking fingers.
The third one—Stepmom Seductions—he moved to a hidden folder titled “Private.”
He would find more of her.
He needed to.
He cleaned himself, flushed the evidence, washed his hands until they were raw.
When he slipped back into the bedroom, Indhu was still sleeping peacefully on her side, skirt smoothed down, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted, looking innocent and beautiful and utterly untouchable.
He lay down on the edge, as far from her as the bed allowed, guilt choking him.
His cock—traitor that it was—gave one last weak twitch at the sight of her.
He turned his back to her, pulled the sheet up to his chin, and stared at the wall until sleep finally dragged him under.
In his dreams India Summer wore Indhu's face, and Indhu wore black lace, and neither of them ever looked away.
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