Sunny's dream in Chapter 25 – Monday
1 December 2025 – Monday [“Your son is in there,” Azad Sahab said. “He has been listening to his mother get opened. Say sorry to him.”
“I am not going to say that.”
He thrust harder, punishing the refusal. Her whole body rocked. The old wooden frame protested.
“Then say the other thing. Say you like it.”
“I like it.” She said it at once, as if the harder thrust had knocked the truth loose. “I like it. I like how you hold me. I like how thick you are. I like that you do not ask like a boy. I like that you come and take. I should not like it this much. I still like it.”
“Good girl.”
The words landed on her like a hand. She shivered. Her arms weakened. She dropped from her elbows to her chest, ass still up, and he followed her down without leaving her body. The new angle made her moan into the mattress, raw and shameless. I had never heard that sound from her. Not in twenty-one years. Not in the kitchen last night. This was the hotel sound. This was the sound from the videos I was not supposed to have. It was in our room now, on our sheet, under our tube light that was still off.
He did not last in that position as long as the first. He pulled out again, turned her onto her back, and pushed her knees toward her own chest. Her breasts flattened and then spilled to the sides. He put himself back in with one look at the place I still could not see, and then he was covering her again, chest to chest, his mouth on hers to swallow the noise. The bed knocked the wall.
Once. Twice.
“The neighbours,” she gasped into his mouth.
“Let them hear..give me what I came for and I will go.”
She nodded. She kissed him. She used her body. Her legs locked high on his back. She met every thrust. Sweat shone in the line between her breasts and at her temples. The bracelet slid up and down her wrist. She had become, in those minutes, the thing he wanted her to be — not the mother who packed pickle, not the woman who lit diyas, the other one, the one who said yes in a kitchen and then opened the door at dawn.
“I am close,” he said.
“Inside.” She said it without shame. “Do it inside. I will clean after. Just… just give it. I want to feel it. I have been empty since that night.”
He buried himself to the root and stayed there, grinding, the thick vein lost in her, his breath harsh in her hair. His body went tight. He made a low sound that was not words. She held his head and took it. I saw her face when he came — the small wince, then the softness, then the look of a woman who has been filled and is still hungry around it.
He did not pull out at once. He stayed in her, heavy, claiming the minutes after.
That was when he turned his head.
He looked straight at the bathroom door.
Straight at the slit.
Straight at me.
There was no surprise on his face. Only that one-sided smile, colder in the morning light than it had been at our dinner table. He moved his hips once more, slow, still inside her, so that she made a small helpless sound, and he spoke without lowering his voice.
“Come out, Sunny.”
My name in his mouth made the floor tilt.
“You stood there like a good boy and watched your mother take it. Don’t hide now. This is the new rent of this flat. Not seven thousand. This. Her, on this bed, whenever I walk up the stairs. She cooks your food with my seed still in her. Remember that when you eat your paratha. Remember who she opens for. Your father is gone. You are only the son. The man of this house comes from the ground floor.”
Ma did not stop him. She only turned her face toward the bathroom too, flushed, lips swollen, and smiled, almost wickedly.
He continued “Next time don’t close the door. If you want to learn how a woman is used, look properly. She is not hiding anymore.”] has fulfilled the long-awaited hopes of the readers, now the author of the story My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read) Authorsunny should make Sunny's dream a reality in the next update of Chapter 25 or in Chapter 26. I sincerely thank the author Authorsunny from the bottom of my heart.
1 December 2025 – Monday [“Your son is in there,” Azad Sahab said. “He has been listening to his mother get opened. Say sorry to him.”
“I am not going to say that.”
He thrust harder, punishing the refusal. Her whole body rocked. The old wooden frame protested.
“Then say the other thing. Say you like it.”
“I like it.” She said it at once, as if the harder thrust had knocked the truth loose. “I like it. I like how you hold me. I like how thick you are. I like that you do not ask like a boy. I like that you come and take. I should not like it this much. I still like it.”
“Good girl.”
The words landed on her like a hand. She shivered. Her arms weakened. She dropped from her elbows to her chest, ass still up, and he followed her down without leaving her body. The new angle made her moan into the mattress, raw and shameless. I had never heard that sound from her. Not in twenty-one years. Not in the kitchen last night. This was the hotel sound. This was the sound from the videos I was not supposed to have. It was in our room now, on our sheet, under our tube light that was still off.
He did not last in that position as long as the first. He pulled out again, turned her onto her back, and pushed her knees toward her own chest. Her breasts flattened and then spilled to the sides. He put himself back in with one look at the place I still could not see, and then he was covering her again, chest to chest, his mouth on hers to swallow the noise. The bed knocked the wall.
Once. Twice.
“The neighbours,” she gasped into his mouth.
“Let them hear..give me what I came for and I will go.”
She nodded. She kissed him. She used her body. Her legs locked high on his back. She met every thrust. Sweat shone in the line between her breasts and at her temples. The bracelet slid up and down her wrist. She had become, in those minutes, the thing he wanted her to be — not the mother who packed pickle, not the woman who lit diyas, the other one, the one who said yes in a kitchen and then opened the door at dawn.
“I am close,” he said.
“Inside.” She said it without shame. “Do it inside. I will clean after. Just… just give it. I want to feel it. I have been empty since that night.”
He buried himself to the root and stayed there, grinding, the thick vein lost in her, his breath harsh in her hair. His body went tight. He made a low sound that was not words. She held his head and took it. I saw her face when he came — the small wince, then the softness, then the look of a woman who has been filled and is still hungry around it.
He did not pull out at once. He stayed in her, heavy, claiming the minutes after.
That was when he turned his head.
He looked straight at the bathroom door.
Straight at the slit.
Straight at me.
There was no surprise on his face. Only that one-sided smile, colder in the morning light than it had been at our dinner table. He moved his hips once more, slow, still inside her, so that she made a small helpless sound, and he spoke without lowering his voice.
“Come out, Sunny.”
My name in his mouth made the floor tilt.
“You stood there like a good boy and watched your mother take it. Don’t hide now. This is the new rent of this flat. Not seven thousand. This. Her, on this bed, whenever I walk up the stairs. She cooks your food with my seed still in her. Remember that when you eat your paratha. Remember who she opens for. Your father is gone. You are only the son. The man of this house comes from the ground floor.”
Ma did not stop him. She only turned her face toward the bathroom too, flushed, lips swollen, and smiled, almost wickedly.
He continued “Next time don’t close the door. If you want to learn how a woman is used, look properly. She is not hiding anymore.”] has fulfilled the long-awaited hopes of the readers, now the author of the story My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read) Authorsunny should make Sunny's dream a reality in the next update of Chapter 25 or in Chapter 26. I sincerely thank the author Authorsunny from the bottom of my heart.
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