Incest Mom’s Alibi (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

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Mom’s Alibi

By Novelist Casanova 

Our village sat past the last paddy field and the small temple tank, at the far edge of coconut and palmyra country in Tamil Nadu. Red-tiled roofs, lime-washed mud walls that had gone dull in the heat, a well in almost every backyard, wood smoke in the evenings, and the smell of wet earth after even a short rain. The highway ran two kilometres away. Between that highway and our street there was a belt of forest — not deep jungle, only old trees, thorny scrub, and a footpath everyone used when they did not want the long walk on the tar road. That path was how we always came home.
I had finished my LLB.
The revaluation results for the last three papers — BSA, CPC and IPR-2 — had come back as passed. All three. The degree was complete. I boarded the city bus in Madras with the printout folded in my shirt pocket and sat the whole journey with that paper pressing against my chest, as if the bus itself might take it back if I did not hold it. By late afternoon the bus pulled into our town. Heat sat on the platform. Dust, diesel, other buses leaving, the usual noise of a small town that was not yet the village.
I stepped down with my bag.
The four of them were already waiting near the tea stall — Murugan, Selvam, Kumar and Ravi — the same four who had been with me since college, the ones who still lived in the village and came into town only for work or for me. They saw me before I fully put my foot on the ground and started coming toward me, already smiling in that way that made my throat tight.

“Tell properly. Result came or you are making a face for nothing?” Murugan asked, stopping right in front of me.
“Passed. All three papers. BSA, CPC, IPR-2. Degree finished. I am not a student anymore,” I said, and I heard my own voice come out fuller than I expected, because the words had been sitting in my mouth since morning.
They pulled me into a rough hug, slapping my back hard enough that the bag slipped on my shoulder. Selvam took the bag from me without asking, the way he always did when he decided I should not carry anything that day. Kumar kept repeating advocate as if he was trying the word on his tongue to see if it fitted me. Ravi only laughed and pointed across the road at the small restaurant with the faded board and the steel tables inside.
“First you will sit and eat with us. After that we will take you inside the forest path and leave you at your house. Your amma will be waiting with something sweet, I know that much,” Ravi said.
We went in. The ceiling fan turned slowly. The smell of sambar and fried fish filled the place. I told the man behind the counter to bring whatever they wanted — full meals, omelette, cold drinks, extra appalam — and I sat there watching them eat as if this treat was the real certificate. They ate like they had been waiting for this day for months. Murugan kept lifting his glass and looking at me.
“Your father in Dubai will hear this and he will smile, da. Your amma does not care about paper names. She will only understand that her son finished and came home. She will make payasam tonight itself, you watch,” Murugan said.
“She doesn’t know BSA or CPC or IPR-2. She only knows I went, I studied, and now I have come back. That is enough for her,” I said, and while I said it I could already see her standing in the kitchen doorway in her cotton saree, looking at me the way she looked when I returned from Madras.
They laughed, not loudly, just that village-friend laugh that sits in the chest. We stayed almost an hour. I paid. Outside the sun had dropped a little. The town noise was still there, but the road toward the village had already gone quieter, as if the place itself knew we were leaving it behind.
We started walking.
First the shops, then the last bus stop, then the turn where the tar road went one way and the forest path went the other. We took the forest path the way we always did. Trees closed over us. The ground was uneven, dry leaves, dust, the smell of something green mixed with the day’s heat that had not fully left. Cicadas had already started. Far behind us a lorry horn sounded on the highway and then faded, and after that there was only our walking.
Kumar walked ahead kicking a stone. Selvam carried my bag on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. Murugan and Ravi stayed on either side of me, close enough that I could hear them breathing.
“Two full months you will stay now or what? Or you will run back to Madras in ten days like last time?” Selvam asked, glancing at me.
“I came straight from the result. I will stay with Amma. Appa is still in Dubai. There is no reason to go back immediately,” I said.
The path narrowed. On both sides the scrub grew thick enough that the fields disappeared. Only trees, a thin strip of sky, and the sound of our feet. I could already picture the house — the front yard, the well, kitchen smoke rising, and my mother standing there in her cotton saree the way she always stood when someone came from town. Twenty more minutes inside the forest and I would see her.
The forest took us in properly after that last turn.
The town noise died behind the trees. Light came down in broken patches. The path was only wide enough for two people if they walked carefully. Thorny scrub brushed my trousers. Dry leaves shifted under our feet. Somewhere to the left a bird went up in a sudden clap of wings and then the place became quiet again, as if the forest itself had leaned in to listen.
Selvam still had my bag on his shoulder. Kumar walked a little ahead, kicking the same stone until it disappeared into the bushes. Murugan and Ravi stayed close on either side of me. For a few minutes nobody spoke. Only walking, only the cicadas, only the far-off sound of one more lorry on the highway that we could no longer see.
Then Kumar laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that starts before the sentence is ready.
“Town girls are there, da, but they walk like they are doing a favour. Our village is different. You come back after months and you notice it more. Some women here, even after marriage, even after children, they still look like that. Tall, heavy in the chest, wide in the hips, face like that… you tell me I am wrong,” Kumar said, not turning around.
Murugan made a small sound in his throat, half agreement, half warning.
“Talk softly. Path has ears. But he is not fully wrong. There are four or five in our village who still make a man look twice when they walk to the tank or stand at the well. Full body. That kind of face. You know who I mean. Don’t act as if you studied law and forgot how to see,” Murugan said.
My stomach tightened for no reason I wanted to name yet. I kept walking. The printout in my pocket suddenly felt childish, like a college paper, not a degree.
Ravi glanced at me sideways, smiling in that slow way he had when he was about to put a name in the air.
“You stay in Madras and you forget. We see them every day. One or two, if they tie the saree a certain way and walk to the shop, even the old men look. I am not saying anything dirty. I am saying the village still has that. Your house side also,” Ravi said, and then he let the last words hang.
Selvam shifted the bag on his shoulder. He did not laugh immediately. When he spoke his voice was lower, as if he already knew the line he was crossing.
“Don’t bring house names on the path, da. But since you started… Sudha Aunty still looks like that. I am saying it only because we are four of us and he is here after so long. Tall. That face. Heavy breasts sitting in the blouse like that. Wide hips when she walks to the well. Thick thighs under the saree. She stands in the yard and it is not an old woman’s body. That is all. After that keep your mouth,” Selvam said.
The name landed in my chest.
Sudha.
My mom.
I did not stop walking. My face did not change in a way they could use. Inside, something turned. Not a full thought. Only a heat that started low and moved up, as if the forest air had become thicker. I saw her without wanting to see her — standing near our well, taller than most village women, that full face, large eyes, full mouth, long dark hair tied back, the cotton saree pulled across a heavy chest and those wide hips, the blouse stretched, the petticoat sitting low, the walk that made the saree move over thick thighs. The same body I had been hugging a little longer these last visits, telling myself it was only son and mother.
Kumar finally turned his head, grinning, not noticing what had gone still in me.
“See, even Selvam said it. We are not talking like rowdies. We are talking like men who live here. Sudha Aunty is still one of the village beauties. You go home and look properly today. Degree finished, eyes also should finish sleeping,” Kumar said.
“Enough. Path is not the tea stall. Leave it,” I said, and I heard how tight my own voice had become.
They laughed, not loudly, the kind of laugh that says they had already put the words out and could not take them back. Murugan touched my shoulder once, a friend’s touch, and then let his hand fall.
“He is coming home after passing and we started this talk. All right. All right. Village is another ten minutes. Your mom will be at the door. Keep your face normal,” Murugan said.
I kept my face normal.
Inside, the stirring did not stop. The trees went on. The path went on. Every step toward the house was now a step toward her — toward that tall body, that face, those heavy breasts and wide hips I had always seen and had never allowed myself to see this way. The name they had spoken was walking with me. I wanted the talk to end. I also wanted to reach home faster than before, to see her standing there in the yard, and to check with my own eyes whether they had only been talking or whether something in me had already been waiting for those words.


The forest thinned the way it always did just before our street.
First the last stretch of scrub, then the temple tank on the right, then the row of red-tiled houses and the smell of kitchen smoke. Dogs barked once and went quiet. A television was playing somewhere behind a half-open door. Our village had taken us back.
The four of them stopped at the corner where their lanes split from mine.
Murugan put his hand on my shoulder and kept it there longer than a joke needed.
“We walked you till here. Now you go. We are proud, da. Not small proud. You sat in Madras, you wrote those papers again, BSA, CPC, IPR-2, and you came back with the degree. Your house will sleep well tonight. We will tell the whole street tomorrow. Go,” Murugan said.
Selvam lowered my bag into my hand as if he was giving me something heavier than books.
“If your mom asks who ate with you in town, tell her we did. And tell her we said her son did not waste the years. That is enough from us,” Selvam said.
Kumar and Ravi both nodded, still smiling, already turning toward their own houses.
“Go and show your face at the door. Sudha Aunty will be waiting. We will come tomorrow,” Ravi said.
They left. Their voices faded between the houses. I walked the last thirty steps alone.
Our front yard. The well. The old bucket. The tulsi. And then the door opened.
My mom came out.

Red saree. Red blouse. The red saree was pulled across her tall body the way it always sat on her — tight over those heavy breasts, gathered at the waist, falling over wide hips and thick thighs. The red blouse was stretched across her chest. The petticoat string sat low, the way she had learned from her mother, so the red saree started below her navel. Long dark hair tied back. That full face, large eyes, full mouth. She stood in the doorway and for one second the friends’ words and this body became the same thing, and heat went straight down my stomach. I was hard before I reached the step.
She saw me and her whole face opened.
“Rajesh. You came. Come inside, come inside. Why are you standing there like a guest?” my mom said, already stepping back so I could enter.
I went in. The house smelled of rice and something sweet she had started. I put the bag down. She was still close, the red saree moving when she turned.
“Mom. The revaluation came. BSA, CPC, IPR-2. All three passed. I finished LLB. I came straight,” I said.
She made a small sound, not words first, only that happy broken breath village mothers make when the thing they prayed for actually stands in the room. Then she came to me and wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my face into her shoulder, hugging me hard, her heavy breasts pressed against my chest through the red blouse and the red saree, her tall body flush against mine.
“I knew. I told your father also. I knew you would finish. I did not study those papers but I sat and waited. You did it. My son did it,” my mom said, still holding my neck, still not letting go.
The hug was meant as a mother’s hug. Inside me it was not. I was fully horny the moment her body hit mine. I put my arms around her and hugged her back, tighter than a son should, and I brought my hands down over the red saree, down the curve of her waist, and I grabbed her ass with both hands over the red saree. I felt the shape of her panties underneath, the line of them, her ass cheeks filling my palms. I squeezed once, then again, feeling her panties through the red saree while I kept my mouth moving on her.
I kissed her forehead, her cheek, the side of her face, then her neck, saying it against her skin so it would sound like gratitude.
“Thank you, Mom. Thank you. It was possible only because of you. You stayed here, you sent money when Appa delayed, you told me to write again when I failed those three. Without your support I would not be standing here with the degree. Thank you, Mom,” I said, and I kissed her neck again, and my hands stayed on her ass, gripping her over the red saree, rubbing the shape of her panties through the red saree.
She did not suspect me.
She only held my neck tighter and laughed that wet happy laugh against my shoulder, her tall body still pressed to mine, heavy breasts moving with her breath inside the red blouse.
“Enough kissing, kanna. You came home, that is enough. I will make payasam. Leave the bag. Wash your face. You are talking like you won a court case already,” my mom said, still not pushing my hands away, still not reading what my hands were doing on her ass.
I let her go only when she loosened her arms. My palms came off the red saree slowly. The heat did not go. She turned toward the kitchen in that red saree, wide hips moving, and I stood in the front room with the degree in my pocket and the feel of her panties still in my hands.


That hug in the red saree did not end in the front room.
It stayed in my hands and in my cock for the next seven days.
I was horny in the morning when she stood at the stove. I was horny in the afternoon when she walked to the well. I was more horny at night when she sat on the cot in her saree and asked me whether I had eaten. Every hour in that house made it worse. The degree was finished. Appa was in Dubai. There was only my mom and that tall body and the memory of her panties under my palms.
I started using love as the door.
Whenever she passed me I would call her and pull her in and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the sides of her face, sometimes her neck, telling her the same thing in different words so it would sound like a son who had come home after passing.
“I love you, Mom. I love you more than the degree. I sat in Madras and I thought of you only. Let me hold you for one minute,” I said, and while I said it my hands were already going down over her saree.
I grabbed her ass every now and then.
Not once. Again and again. In the front room. Near the door. When she bent to pick the vessel. My palms would settle on her ass over the saree, squeeze those wide cheeks, feel the shape of her panties underneath, and stay there. She would jump a little, not in fear, only that small body-jump women make when someone touches a place they are not used to being held, and she would move her ass in my hands as if she was trying to shake the feeling off.
“Aiyo, Rajesh, it is ticklish. Why are you holding me there? Leave, leave. It is tickling,” my mom said, moving her ass, not pulling my wrists away hard, only twisting that tall body inside the saree.
“Please, Mom. One second. I missed you. I love you. Let me,” I said.
When I said please she let me.

She would stop twisting and stand there with her face half turned, still calling it ticklish, still not suspecting that my cock was hard against my trousers while I held her ass and rubbed her panties through the saree. I kissed her face through all of it — cheek, jaw, the corner of her mouth — so the grabbing would hide inside the thank you.
The kitchen became easier.
She would be at the stove in her saree and blouse, petticoat tied low, stirring, not looking behind. I would come from the front room without making a story of it, put both hands on her waist from behind over the saree, and pull that tall body back against me. Then I would take my hands up, over the blouse, and grab her breasts from behind. Her breasts filled my hands over the blouse. I felt her bra under the blouse, the weight of those heavy breasts, and I squeezed.
She did not suspect me.
She only made a small sound and kept stirring, as if a son holding his mother in the kitchen was the most ordinary thing in a house where the father was in Dubai.
“Rajesh, I am cooking. Your hands are on me. The stove is hot. What are you doing?” my mom said, not turning fully, her breasts still in my hands over the blouse.
“Nothing, Mom. I love you. You stood in this kitchen for three years while I wrote those papers. Let me stand like this for one minute. Please, Mom,” I said, and I kissed the side of her neck and kept my hands on her breasts over the blouse, squeezing again, feeling her bra and the heavy shape of her.
“Ticklish. Your father is not here and you have become like this after coming home. All right. One minute. Then leave. Payasam will burn,” my mom said, and she let me.
She let me hold her ass in the front room. She let me grab her breasts in the kitchen over the blouse. She moved her ass and called it ticklish and she never once looked at my face as if she had understood what was sitting in my trousers. For one full week I walked behind her in that house more horny than the day before, kissing her face, saying I love you, saying please, and taking whatever her body gave me because she still thought it was only her son who had passed and come home.


That hug in the red saree did not end in the front room.
It stayed in my hands and in my cock for the next seven days.
I was horny in the morning when she stood at the stove. I was horny in the afternoon when she walked to the well. I was more horny at night when she sat on the cot in her saree and asked me whether I had eaten. Every hour in that house made it worse. The degree was finished. There was only my mom and that tall body and the memory of her panties under my palms.

I started using love as the door.
Whenever she passed me I would call her and pull her in and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the sides of her face, sometimes her neck, letting the words come out slowly so they would sound like a son who had come home after passing and did not know how else to put the feeling down.
“I love you, Mom. I love you more than the degree, more than Madras, more than those three papers I wrote again. I sat there and I thought of you only. Let me hold you for one minute. Please don’t move away so fast,” I said, and while I said it my hands were already going down over her saree.
I grabbed her ass every now and then.

Not once. Again and again. In the front room. Near the door. When she bent to pick the vessel. My palms would settle on her ass over the saree, squeeze those wide cheeks, feel the shape of her panties underneath, and stay there. She would jump a little, not in fear, only that small body-jump a woman makes when someone touches a place she is not used to being held, and she would move her ass in my hands as if she was trying to shake the feeling off without fully leaving the hug.

“Aiyo, Rajesh, it is ticklish, why are you holding me there like that, leave it, I can’t stand still if you keep your hands there, it is tickling and you are kissing my face at the same time,” my mom said, moving her ass, not pulling my wrists away hard, only twisting that tall body inside the saree as if the tickle and the love were the same thing.

“Please, Mom. One second only. I missed you every day I was away. I love you. Let me. If you say it is ticklish I will hold you softer, but don’t push me off, I just came home and I don’t want to stop touching you yet,” I said.
When I said please she let me.
She would stop twisting and stand there with her face half turned, still calling it ticklish, still not suspecting that my cock was hard against my trousers while I held her ass and rubbed her panties through the saree. I kissed her face through all of it — cheek, jaw, the corner of her mouth — so the grabbing would hide inside the thank you and the I love you.

The kitchen became easier.
She would be at the stove in her saree and blouse, petticoat tied low, stirring, not looking behind. I would come from the front room without making a story of it, put both hands on her waist from behind over the saree, and pull that tall body back against me. Then I would take my hands up, over the blouse, and grab her breasts from behind. Her breasts filled my hands over the blouse. I felt her bra under the blouse, the weight of those heavy breasts, and I squeezed, staying there as if this too could pass for a son who did not know how to keep his happiness in his mouth.
She did not suspect me.
She only made a small sound and kept stirring, as if being held in the kitchen was the most ordinary thing in a house that had been waiting for this return.
“Rajesh, I am cooking, your hands are on me and the stove is hot, what are you doing standing behind me like this, I can’t even turn, you came home and you have become so clinging,” my mom said, not turning fully, her breasts still in my hands over the blouse.

“Nothing, Mom. I love you. You stood in this kitchen while I wrote those papers and failed and wrote them again. Let me stand like this for one minute. Please, Mom. I am not asking for anything else. Only this. Your waist, your body, one minute, then I will leave you to the stove,” I said, and I kissed the side of her neck and kept my hands on her breasts over the blouse, squeezing again, feeling her bra and the heavy shape of her.
“It is ticklish when you hold me like that from behind, and you are talking so much while your hands are there, all right, one minute, only one minute, then leave, or the payasam will burn and you will still be standing here holding me,” my mom said, and she let me.
She let me hold her ass in the front room. She let me grab her breasts in the kitchen over the blouse. She moved her ass and called it ticklish and she never once looked at my face as if she had understood what was sitting in my trousers. For one full week I walked behind her in that house more horny than the day before, kissing her face, saying I love you, saying please, and taking whatever her body gave me because she still thought it was only her son who had passed and come home.

By the end of that week my hands were no longer enough.
I had held her ass over the saree until I knew the shape of her panties by heart. I had stood behind her in the kitchen and held her breasts over the blouse until her bra and the weight of her were familiar in my palms. Every time she called it ticklish and every time she said one minute, something in me only grew. I started looking at her mouth without meaning to look at it that way — that full mouth I had been kissing around, forehead and cheek and jaw and neck, and never taking.
It happened in the front room in the late afternoon. She had just come from the kitchen. Saree. Blouse. Petticoat still tied low. A little sweat at her temple. I called her the way I had been calling her all week, pulled her in by the waist, and kissed her face first because that was the only language I thought I had. Then I kissed the corner of her mouth. Then, before I could stop myself, I put my mouth on her lips.
She jerked her face to the side at once.

“Rajesh, what is this, not on the lips, you can’t kiss me there, that is not how a son kisses his mother, leave my mouth, I am telling you properly, hold me if you want, kiss my cheek, kiss my forehead the way you have been doing these days, but don’t put your mouth on my lips like that, it is confusing me and I don’t like that confusion,” my mom said, turning her face, her hands coming up to my chest, not pushing with full force, only trying to make a line where there had been no line until now.

I did not let her go. I kept one hand on her waist over the saree and the other on her back, and I spoke against her cheek in that rushing way a boy speaks when he is afraid he has done something wrong and still cannot take his body away.
“Mom, listen to me once, please don’t be angry with me, I am not trying to do anything bad, I swear I am not, I passed because of you and I came home because of you and when I say I love you I don’t know where to put all of it, the cheek is not feeling like enough now and the neck is not feeling like enough now and I only thought if I kiss you on the lips you will understand how much I mean it, it is only love, Mom, please don’t make it into something else in your head, I will feel dirty if you look at me like I planned this, I didn’t plan this, it just came, please, one time, if you say no after that I will never do it again,” I said.
She kept her face turned. Her breathing had changed. Her heavy breasts were rising against my chest through the blouse. She was still in my arms. She had not walked out of the room.

“It does not sit on me like only love when you hold my ass the way you have been holding it and then you come to my mouth, I am your mother, Rajesh, people outside this house will not understand this even if you keep saying love, love, love, if anyone sees what will I say, I am asking you to hear me, kiss my face as much as you want, I have not stopped you all week, only don’t take my lips, that one thing feels different and I don’t know how to explain it to you,” my mom said, and her voice had that shake in it that was not anger yet, only a woman trying to protect a line she could no longer see clearly.
I kissed the side of her face again, slower, almost clumsy, and I let my hand stay on her ass over the saree while I spoke, not grabbing hard this time, only keeping her there because I was afraid that if I opened my arms she would go to the kitchen and the chance would close.

“No one is seeing us, Mom, it is only this house, I am showing you love, that is all I know how to do, you let me hold you in the kitchen and you let me hold you here and you said it was ticklish and you still stood, this is the same thing in my head, only closer, I love you, I don’t have another way to say it, I am not thinking like a man in the town, I am thinking like your son who came home and cannot stop, please give me your lips for one minute, if it feels wrong you can stop me, I will stop the same second, I am asking you, I am not telling you, please, Mom,” I said.

She was quiet for a few seconds. The kind of quiet in which a woman is checking the room, checking her own body, checking whether the boy holding her is still the boy she has been feeding and waiting for. Then she let her face come back, not fully offering her mouth, only stopping the turn, her large eyes on my face, her full lips slightly parted because she had been talking and had not yet closed them.
“You keep saying only love and you keep looking at me with that face as if you will cry if I say no, all right, only love, one minute, if I tell you to stop you will stop, don’t make this into a habit in the middle of the house, and don’t tell anyone, not even as a joke, come, do it and then leave it,” my mom said.
I took her lips.

I kissed her slowly first, the way an innocent boy kisses when he thinks love and hunger are the same word, and then I stayed on her mouth because I did not know how to come back from it, feeling that full mouth under mine, her tall body still against me, my hand still on her ass over the saree, her breasts pressed to my chest through the blouse. She did not kiss me back at once. She stood and received it, breathing through her nose, one hand on my shoulder as if she needed a place to hold while her son did something she had refused two minutes ago.
When I drew back a little she did not wipe her mouth. She only looked at me with that same un-suspecting face, flushed now, trying to put the kiss back into the box called love, and I looked at her like a boy who had been allowed something he did not fully understand and already wanted again.

“Enough, you showed it, don’t stand there looking at me like that, I said one minute and you took it, go and sit now, I have work in the kitchen and if I stay here you will start talking again and I will not know what to answer,” my mom said.

I let her go. She walked toward the kitchen in her saree, wide hips moving, and I stood in the front room with the taste of her lips in my mouth, more innocent in my own head than I had any right to be, already knowing I would ask again and already telling myself it would still only be love.
After she gave me her lips that afternoon, the house changed without anyone naming the change.

I did not leap. I did not become a different man overnight. I became a son who had been allowed one extra thing and did not know how to put it back. So I started doing all of it as if it belonged to the ordinary day — the hug when she came out of the kitchen, the kiss on her cheek when she asked if I had eaten, the kiss on her neck when she stood near the door, and then, when my chest got tight, the kiss on her lips again, short enough that I could still tell myself it was only love.
She let the pattern grow because I kept speaking to her like a boy who was afraid of being misunderstood.

In the morning I would find her at the stove in her saree and blouse, petticoat tied low, and I would come behind her only to hold her waist first, then turn her a little, then bury my face in her neck and stay there.

“Mom, don’t move, I am not asking for anything new, I only want to stand like this and kiss you here, your neck smells like the house, I missed this when I was in Madras, let me, I will leave you to the work in one minute,” I said, and I kissed her neck slowly, then her cheek, then, when she did not turn her face away hard, I took her lips for a few seconds and left them, as if even I believed I had only passed through.
She would make that small sound in her throat and keep one hand on the vessel so the work would not look abandoned.

“You have made this a habit in seven days, Rajesh, first it was the hug, then my ass and you said it was love, then my lips and you said it was love, now you come into the kitchen and kiss my neck like this while I am cooking, I don’t know what to call it, I only know you look like you will feel hurt if I push you, so I am standing, finish and go,” my mom said.
I finished and I did not go far.

To Be Continued...!