18-08-2026, 11:33 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 03:20 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 18 – Part 1
25 November 2025 – Tuesday
The morning light came in flat and grey through the grill. Outside, the lane still smelled of spent gunpowder and wet ash from the night before. Inside the flat the air held the quieter residue of everything that had not been cleaned away — the faint sweetness of the attar that never fully left the curtains, the ironed-cotton smell of the sheet I had changed, and the sharper memory of the peach chiffon that now lay folded on the chair.
Ma was already awake. She sat on the edge of the bed in the old nighty, hair loosely tied, scrolling through her phone with the same calm face she had worn when she walked in at half past eleven. The new mark on the side of her throat had darkened slightly overnight; it sat higher than the earlier ones, closer to the jaw. She did not try to hide it.
“I am going to bathe properly today. I want to wash my hair today. The smoke is still in it.”
I sat up. The mattress felt thinner than usual. The guilt from the previous evening — the hidden sheet, the images I had used — still occupied the same space in my chest as the knowledge of how long she had actually stayed with him. I drank the tea in silence. She finished whatever she was reading, locked the phone, and placed it face down on the folding table beside the two red jewellery boxes, one of which had not yet been opened.
“I’m going in,” she said, standing.
She collected a towel, the bottle of shampoo, and a fresh set of clothes, then went into the bathroom. The door closed with its usual soft resistance. The weak latch clicked but did not fully catch; the narrow gap along the frame remained, the same gap I had used before. Water started running almost immediately.
I sat still for almost a full minute. My heart had begun to beat in a slow, heavy way that made the room feel smaller. The phone lay on the table less than two metres from me. The red boxes sat beside it like quiet witnesses. Outside, a vegetable vendor called out prices. Inside, the only sound was the water and the low hum of the fridge.
I stood up. My hands felt cold. I walked to the table, picked up the phone, and sat back on the edge of the bed with it. The screen was locked. I knew her pattern code — the same simple L-shape she had used for years because she never remembered more complicated ones. I drew it. The phone opened.
WhatsApp first. The chat list loaded. The top conversation was saved as “Azad Sahab”. No last message preview. When I tapped it, a lock screen appeared asking for a separate chat lock PIN. I did not know it. I pressed back. The rest of the chats were ordinary — a few relatives, the building group, an old parlour colleague. Nothing recent that looked private. I closed the app.
Gallery. The main album was almost empty of anything after the previous week. A few photos of the rangoli , two pictures of the fairy lights, one of the corner after cleaning, two images of the new bike. No images from the mall. No images from the car. No images from wherever she had gone after they dropped me. I scrolled further. Nothing.
I opened the three-dot menu and looked for Hidden or Locked folders. There was a Locked Folder option, but it was empty and asked for a password she had never set; the phone simply said “No items”. She was not the kind of person who knew how to use hidden folders properly.
My thumb hovered over the screen. The water in the bathroom continued without pause. She was washing her hair; that usually took twelve to fifteen minutes. I had time, but not unlimited time.
I went into the recently deleted album.
The folder opened. Seven items sat there in a neat grid, all with the grey “Recently Deleted” banner across the bottom. The timestamps were clear.
Three photos and one video from before 9:00 p.m.
Then one video and two photos from after 10:00 p.m.
My mouth went dry. I tapped the first photo.
It had been taken at 8:17 p.m. The quality was high — a phone camera in good light. The background was unmistakable. Soft beige walls, a wide bed with white hotel linen, a dark wooden headboard, and in the mirror behind the bed the partial reflection of a wall-mounted television. In the lower corner of the mirror, small and clear, was the embroidered crest and the words “The Fern – Residency”. I knew the place. It was the mid-premium business hotel near the signal on the highway road, the one with the quiet side entrance that regulars used. Not the cheapest, not the most expensive. Exactly the kind of place a man like Azad would use for a few hours when he did not want the full public lobby of a five-star.
In the photo Ma sat on the edge of the bed in the soft peach chiffon saree, the pallu already loosened and falling off one shoulder. The wide scoop of the blouse had been pulled lower than she had worn it in the mall. Her hair was still open. She was looking slightly away from the camera, expression caught between reluctance and something softer. One of Azad’s hands was visible on her bare upper arm, the same place he had touched in the car. The lighting made the gold zari border of the saree shine.
I stared at it for several seconds, then swiped to the second photo. Timestamp 8:24 p.m.
This one was closer. Ma’s face filled most of the frame. The blouse strap on her left shoulder had been pushed down. The black lace of the bra was fully visible along the upper curve of her breast. Her lipstick was already slightly smudged. She was looking at the camera with an expression I had never seen directed at me — half warning, half permission. Behind her the same hotel headboard.
Third photo, 8:31 p.m.
She was no longer looking at the camera. The saree pallu was gone from her shoulder entirely. The blouse had been unhooked at the back; both thin straps hung loose down her arms. The black lace bra was still on, but one cup had been pulled down. Her left breast was fully exposed — heavy, soft, the dark nipple already tight. Azad Sahab’s hand cupped it from below, the contrast of his darker skin against hers unmistakable. Her head was tilted back slightly, eyes half-closed. The photo had been taken from above, as if he was standing or kneeling over her.
My hands had begun to shake. I could hear the water still running. She was still washing her hair. I swiped to the first video.
The video was forty-three seconds long. Timestamp 8:47 p.m. It began with a slightly unsteady frame of the same hotel bed. Ma was now sitting on the edge, the peach blouse completely open and hanging off her arms. The black lace bra had been removed; it lay on the white sheet beside her. Her breasts were bare, full, moving with her breathing. Azad Sahab was standing in front of her. Only the lower half of his torso and his mid-section were in the initial frame. Then the camera angle dropped.
His cock was already hard and thick. It was darker than the rest of him, almost black along the shaft, with prominent veins running under the skin from base to just under the head. The head itself was smoother, a deep purplish-brown, already glistening slightly at the tip. It looked heavy, longer than average and noticeably thicker, the kind of size that made the hand holding the phone look smaller by comparison. He was holding it at the base with his right hand, stroking once, slowly, the veins stood out more clearly.
Ma’s face came into the frame as she leaned forward. Her expression was a mixture of hesitation and focus. She reached out with her right hand — the same hand that had painted peach nail polish the previous morning — and wrapped her fingers around the shaft above his. Her fingers did not fully close. She stroked once experimentally, then again with more confidence. The camera shook slightly as he adjusted his grip on the phone.
She looked up at him for a second, said something the video did not capture clearly, then leaned further in. Her tongue came out and touched the underside of the head, a slow, deliberate lick. Then she opened her mouth and took the head inside. Her lips stretched around the thickness. She went down only a short distance before pulling back, a thin string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the tip for a moment. She stroked the shaft with her hand while she caught her breath, then took him in again, deeper this time. One of her breasts moved with the motion; the other was partially hidden by her arm.
The video ended abruptly at forty-three seconds, as if he had stopped recording to continue without the phone in the way.
I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the phone still in my hands. The water in the bathroom had changed pitch; she had finished washing her hair and was now rinsing. I had maybe three or four minutes left at most.
I swiped quickly to the next item — the second video, timestamp 10:18 p.m. The thumbnail showed a darker frame, closer, mostly skin. I did not have time to play it fully. I saw only the first two seconds: Ma’s face from above, eyes closed, mouth open, and one of Azad’s hands gripping her hair. The angle suggested she was on her back or reclining. No clear penetration was visible in the thumbnail, only the upper half of her face and his forearm.
The last two photos I barely registered as thumbnails before the sound of the bathroom latch moving reached me. One thumbnail showed pale skin against darker skin on white sheets. The final one was clearly a selfie angle — two faces close together, his arm across her chest, the unmistakable pressure of his hand on her breast.
I locked the phone, wiped the screen on my shirt once, and placed it back on the folding table exactly as she had left it — face down, slightly angled toward the red boxes. My hands were still shaking. I sat on the chair and forced my breathing to slow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam and the smell of shampoo came out with her. She had wrapped the towel around her body under the arms; her hair was wet and heavy down her back. The mark on her throat looked darker against the clean skin. She glanced at me, then at the phone on the table, then back at me.
“You are still in the bed? “Get up beta. I will take another ten minutes to dry my hair. Make some tea for both of us please.”
I nodded because I did not trust my voice. She walked to the almirah, took out a simple salwar kameez, and went back into the bathroom to change, closing the door more carefully this time.
I remained on the chair, staring at the phone that now sat quietly among the jewelry boxes. Seven items in the recently deleted folder. Three photos and one video before nine o’clock. One video and two photos after ten. Her bare breast under his hand. Her mouth around a thick, veined, dark cock that I could still see in exact detail when I closed my eyes. And the later thumbnails I had not had time to open properly — the ones that suggested the evening had not ended with only her mouth.
The water started again in the bathroom as she rinsed something. I sat very still and waited for my heart to stop trying to climb out of my chest.
25 November 2025 – Tuesday
The morning light came in flat and grey through the grill. Outside, the lane still smelled of spent gunpowder and wet ash from the night before. Inside the flat the air held the quieter residue of everything that had not been cleaned away — the faint sweetness of the attar that never fully left the curtains, the ironed-cotton smell of the sheet I had changed, and the sharper memory of the peach chiffon that now lay folded on the chair.
Ma was already awake. She sat on the edge of the bed in the old nighty, hair loosely tied, scrolling through her phone with the same calm face she had worn when she walked in at half past eleven. The new mark on the side of her throat had darkened slightly overnight; it sat higher than the earlier ones, closer to the jaw. She did not try to hide it.
“I am going to bathe properly today. I want to wash my hair today. The smoke is still in it.”
I sat up. The mattress felt thinner than usual. The guilt from the previous evening — the hidden sheet, the images I had used — still occupied the same space in my chest as the knowledge of how long she had actually stayed with him. I drank the tea in silence. She finished whatever she was reading, locked the phone, and placed it face down on the folding table beside the two red jewellery boxes, one of which had not yet been opened.
“I’m going in,” she said, standing.
She collected a towel, the bottle of shampoo, and a fresh set of clothes, then went into the bathroom. The door closed with its usual soft resistance. The weak latch clicked but did not fully catch; the narrow gap along the frame remained, the same gap I had used before. Water started running almost immediately.
I sat still for almost a full minute. My heart had begun to beat in a slow, heavy way that made the room feel smaller. The phone lay on the table less than two metres from me. The red boxes sat beside it like quiet witnesses. Outside, a vegetable vendor called out prices. Inside, the only sound was the water and the low hum of the fridge.
I stood up. My hands felt cold. I walked to the table, picked up the phone, and sat back on the edge of the bed with it. The screen was locked. I knew her pattern code — the same simple L-shape she had used for years because she never remembered more complicated ones. I drew it. The phone opened.
WhatsApp first. The chat list loaded. The top conversation was saved as “Azad Sahab”. No last message preview. When I tapped it, a lock screen appeared asking for a separate chat lock PIN. I did not know it. I pressed back. The rest of the chats were ordinary — a few relatives, the building group, an old parlour colleague. Nothing recent that looked private. I closed the app.
Gallery. The main album was almost empty of anything after the previous week. A few photos of the rangoli , two pictures of the fairy lights, one of the corner after cleaning, two images of the new bike. No images from the mall. No images from the car. No images from wherever she had gone after they dropped me. I scrolled further. Nothing.
I opened the three-dot menu and looked for Hidden or Locked folders. There was a Locked Folder option, but it was empty and asked for a password she had never set; the phone simply said “No items”. She was not the kind of person who knew how to use hidden folders properly.
My thumb hovered over the screen. The water in the bathroom continued without pause. She was washing her hair; that usually took twelve to fifteen minutes. I had time, but not unlimited time.
I went into the recently deleted album.
The folder opened. Seven items sat there in a neat grid, all with the grey “Recently Deleted” banner across the bottom. The timestamps were clear.
Three photos and one video from before 9:00 p.m.
Then one video and two photos from after 10:00 p.m.
My mouth went dry. I tapped the first photo.
It had been taken at 8:17 p.m. The quality was high — a phone camera in good light. The background was unmistakable. Soft beige walls, a wide bed with white hotel linen, a dark wooden headboard, and in the mirror behind the bed the partial reflection of a wall-mounted television. In the lower corner of the mirror, small and clear, was the embroidered crest and the words “The Fern – Residency”. I knew the place. It was the mid-premium business hotel near the signal on the highway road, the one with the quiet side entrance that regulars used. Not the cheapest, not the most expensive. Exactly the kind of place a man like Azad would use for a few hours when he did not want the full public lobby of a five-star.
In the photo Ma sat on the edge of the bed in the soft peach chiffon saree, the pallu already loosened and falling off one shoulder. The wide scoop of the blouse had been pulled lower than she had worn it in the mall. Her hair was still open. She was looking slightly away from the camera, expression caught between reluctance and something softer. One of Azad’s hands was visible on her bare upper arm, the same place he had touched in the car. The lighting made the gold zari border of the saree shine.
I stared at it for several seconds, then swiped to the second photo. Timestamp 8:24 p.m.
This one was closer. Ma’s face filled most of the frame. The blouse strap on her left shoulder had been pushed down. The black lace of the bra was fully visible along the upper curve of her breast. Her lipstick was already slightly smudged. She was looking at the camera with an expression I had never seen directed at me — half warning, half permission. Behind her the same hotel headboard.
Third photo, 8:31 p.m.
She was no longer looking at the camera. The saree pallu was gone from her shoulder entirely. The blouse had been unhooked at the back; both thin straps hung loose down her arms. The black lace bra was still on, but one cup had been pulled down. Her left breast was fully exposed — heavy, soft, the dark nipple already tight. Azad Sahab’s hand cupped it from below, the contrast of his darker skin against hers unmistakable. Her head was tilted back slightly, eyes half-closed. The photo had been taken from above, as if he was standing or kneeling over her.
My hands had begun to shake. I could hear the water still running. She was still washing her hair. I swiped to the first video.
The video was forty-three seconds long. Timestamp 8:47 p.m. It began with a slightly unsteady frame of the same hotel bed. Ma was now sitting on the edge, the peach blouse completely open and hanging off her arms. The black lace bra had been removed; it lay on the white sheet beside her. Her breasts were bare, full, moving with her breathing. Azad Sahab was standing in front of her. Only the lower half of his torso and his mid-section were in the initial frame. Then the camera angle dropped.
His cock was already hard and thick. It was darker than the rest of him, almost black along the shaft, with prominent veins running under the skin from base to just under the head. The head itself was smoother, a deep purplish-brown, already glistening slightly at the tip. It looked heavy, longer than average and noticeably thicker, the kind of size that made the hand holding the phone look smaller by comparison. He was holding it at the base with his right hand, stroking once, slowly, the veins stood out more clearly.
Ma’s face came into the frame as she leaned forward. Her expression was a mixture of hesitation and focus. She reached out with her right hand — the same hand that had painted peach nail polish the previous morning — and wrapped her fingers around the shaft above his. Her fingers did not fully close. She stroked once experimentally, then again with more confidence. The camera shook slightly as he adjusted his grip on the phone.
She looked up at him for a second, said something the video did not capture clearly, then leaned further in. Her tongue came out and touched the underside of the head, a slow, deliberate lick. Then she opened her mouth and took the head inside. Her lips stretched around the thickness. She went down only a short distance before pulling back, a thin string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the tip for a moment. She stroked the shaft with her hand while she caught her breath, then took him in again, deeper this time. One of her breasts moved with the motion; the other was partially hidden by her arm.
The video ended abruptly at forty-three seconds, as if he had stopped recording to continue without the phone in the way.
I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the phone still in my hands. The water in the bathroom had changed pitch; she had finished washing her hair and was now rinsing. I had maybe three or four minutes left at most.
I swiped quickly to the next item — the second video, timestamp 10:18 p.m. The thumbnail showed a darker frame, closer, mostly skin. I did not have time to play it fully. I saw only the first two seconds: Ma’s face from above, eyes closed, mouth open, and one of Azad’s hands gripping her hair. The angle suggested she was on her back or reclining. No clear penetration was visible in the thumbnail, only the upper half of her face and his forearm.
The last two photos I barely registered as thumbnails before the sound of the bathroom latch moving reached me. One thumbnail showed pale skin against darker skin on white sheets. The final one was clearly a selfie angle — two faces close together, his arm across her chest, the unmistakable pressure of his hand on her breast.
I locked the phone, wiped the screen on my shirt once, and placed it back on the folding table exactly as she had left it — face down, slightly angled toward the red boxes. My hands were still shaking. I sat on the chair and forced my breathing to slow.
The bathroom door opened. Steam and the smell of shampoo came out with her. She had wrapped the towel around her body under the arms; her hair was wet and heavy down her back. The mark on her throat looked darker against the clean skin. She glanced at me, then at the phone on the table, then back at me.
“You are still in the bed? “Get up beta. I will take another ten minutes to dry my hair. Make some tea for both of us please.”
I nodded because I did not trust my voice. She walked to the almirah, took out a simple salwar kameez, and went back into the bathroom to change, closing the door more carefully this time.
I remained on the chair, staring at the phone that now sat quietly among the jewelry boxes. Seven items in the recently deleted folder. Three photos and one video before nine o’clock. One video and two photos after ten. Her bare breast under his hand. Her mouth around a thick, veined, dark cock that I could still see in exact detail when I closed my eyes. And the later thumbnails I had not had time to open properly — the ones that suggested the evening had not ended with only her mouth.
The water started again in the bathroom as she rinsed something. I sat very still and waited for my heart to stop trying to climb out of my chest.
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