22-10-2026, 01:27 PM
Chapter 29 - Saturday
December 06, 2025
The fan kept turning above me. I had closed my eyes on the low wooden seat under the window, the wet patch in my jeans cooling slowly against my thigh, the phone still in my hand. Her snoring stayed even. Small, ordinary breaths that rose and fell with the soft band of waist the kameez had left bare. The AC boxes stood in the corner, brown and square, smelling of new cardboard. I told myself I would only rest a minute. The minute lengthened. The light from the grill stayed pale. Somewhere below, a scooter passed and was gone. The next thing I knew was the sound of the mattress giving under weight.
I opened my eyes.
She was sitting up on the far side of the bed, one hand braced on the sheet, the other pressed to her lower back. The kameez had ridden higher while she slept. A wider strip of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line where the saree had sat the night before. Her hair was flattened on one side. The bite on the left side of her neck looked darker in the low light, almost purple at the centre. She blinked at the grill, then at the room, then found me.
“Sunny?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “When did you come back, beta? How long… how long was I asleep?”
I sat up. The wooden seat creaked under me. “About an hour, Ma. Maybe a little more. I came around twelve. You were already down.”
She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand and looked at the wall clock. “Twelve. It is past one now. God. I did not mean to sleep so long.” She shifted and winced, the hand on her back pressing harder. “My back is still pulling. And these marks… they are burning. The wire sat too long last night. The skin is hot under the cloth.”
I stood. My jeans felt stiff where the wet had dried. “I brought both. I-pill and the Burnol. They are on the table.”
She looked at the folding table, saw the brown paper packet beside the grocery bag, and nodded once. “Bring me a glass of water, beta. I will take it now. Better before the hour goes.”
I went to the kitchen corner, filled a steel glass from the filter, and brought it back. She was already sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the tile, the kameez still high enough that the soft upper curve of her stomach caught the light. She took the glass with one hand and held the other out for the packet. I opened it, took out the green-and-white strip, and passed her one tablet. She placed it on her tongue, drank, and swallowed. The glass emptied halfway. She set it on the floor beside the bed and exhaled.
“There,” she said. “Done. Now the cream. These lines are not settling on their own.”
She reached for the small tube of Burnol, unscrewed the cap, and squeezed a pale line onto two fingers of her right hand. Then she set the tube down and, with her left hand, gathered the cream kameez and pulled it upward in one slow motion. The cloth climbed past her navel, past the soft plane of her stomach, and stopped just under the heavy underswell of her breasts. The green salwar stayed low on her hips. For a second the whole middle of her was bare to the room: the warm wheatish skin, the slight dip of the waist, the way the stomach stayed surprisingly flat even when she sat. The undersides of both breasts showed as soft, full curves where the kameez had bunched. No bra. Nothing between the cotton and the skin. The two red bands from the wire were clear under the left breast and again under the right—darker at the outer edges, almost raw where the underwire had pressed longest.
My cock thickened against the seam of the jeans again. I looked at the floor for a second, then back. She tried to reach under the left side with her cream-coated fingers. The angle was wrong. Her elbow caught the kameez. The marks were low, tucked under the weight of the breast. She shifted, tried again, and made a small sound of frustration.
“It is not reaching properly,” she said. “The left one is worse. I cannot see it from this side.”
I stayed where I was. The room felt smaller. “Ma… if you want, I can help. Only if you do not mind.”
She looked at me. Her hand was still holding the kameez up. The bite moved when she turned her head. “Why would I mind, beta? You are my son. It is only cream. Come. Sit here.”
I crossed the short distance and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to let my thigh press against hers. The mattress dipped. She smelled of the soap she had used in the morning, and under it the faint branded perfume that had not fully left her skin, and a warmer note of sleep-sweat that the fan had not taken. She guided my hand with her free one, turned the tube so I could take more cream, then lifted the kameez a fraction higher so I could see the line under the left breast.
“There,” she said. “Just under. Softly. The skin is already sore.”
I took cream on two fingers and brought them to the red band. The first touch was light. Her skin was warm. The mark itself felt slightly raised. I spread the cream in a slow line, following the curve where the wire had sat, from the outer edge inward. She exhaled through her nose. The underswell of the breast shifted with her breath, soft and heavy against the back of my fingers for a second before she adjusted. I kept the pressure even. My heart was loud in my ears. This was the first time my hand had been under the cloth like this, on bare skin that was not an arm or a shoulder. I thought of Azad’s hands the night before—on her open back, on the edge of the blouse, on the weight he had held while she said the word he wanted. I thought of how she had asked him to come inside, how the bed had hit the wall, how her voice had come through the wood. The same skin. The same weight. She had liked his hands. She had said so on the phone this morning. My fingers kept moving, slow, spreading the cream until the red line shone with it.
“The other side also,” she said, quieter. “It is the same.”
I shifted a little so I could reach under the right breast. She lifted the kameez higher with her left hand to give me room. The cloth slipped. For one clear second the full dark nipple of the right breast came free of the cotton—large, already tight from the cool air or from the touch, the areola wide and darker than the rest of her skin. She saw it at the same moment I did. Her hand came down fast, covering it, pulling the kameez back over the curve. Colour rose in her throat under the bite.
“Sorry,” she said. The word was small. “It slipped. I did not mean—”
“It is all right, Ma.” My voice came out thicker than I wanted. I was fully hard now, the jeans tight across the front. I kept my eyes on the cream and not on the place she had just covered. “I will finish this side.”
She nodded once. She did not lower the kameez all the way. She held it just high enough for me to work. I spread the remaining cream under the right breast, slower than before, feeling the heat of the mark and the softer skin around it. Her breathing had changed. Not deep. Just careful. When I finished she took the tube from my hand, capped it, and let the kameez fall. The cloth settled over her stomach and the start of her breasts. She straightened her back, winced again, then reached for me.
“Come here.”
I leaned in. She pulled me closer by the shoulder until my forehead was near hers. Her lips touched my forehead once, slow, the way she used to when I was smaller. The nighty-soft smell of her skin was right there. The bite was inches from my cheek.
“You are the best son,” she said against my hair. “I love you a lot, beta. More than anything. Thank you.”
I stayed still for a second. My hands were on my own thighs. “I love you too, Ma.”
She let me go. The ordinary distance came back between us, small as it was in the room. She stood, adjusted the kameez so it sat properly over the salwar, and walked to the charger near the bed. Her phone was still plugged in. She picked it up, unlocked it with the new code, and the screen lit her face. I watched from the edge of the bed. She scrolled. Her thumb stopped. The expression on her face changed—something between surprise and discomfort. She opened the post. I could see the four photographs from where I sat: the solo with the deep V, the three-quarter angle, the couple shot with Azad’s hand low on her waist, the group.
She looked at me once. Then again.
“Did you see it, beta?” she asked. “The photos. The post.”
“Yes,” I said. “I saw the notification while I was coming back. I was going to ask you about it.”
She sat on the chair near the almirah, phone still in her hand, and looked at the screen again. “Azad Sahab arranged it. A cameraman. Kunal. He also manages profiles. Azad Sahab has been telling me for weeks that I should have an Instagram. That I should put photos. Make it a hobby. These days good-looking women get huge following, and some of them even earn from it. He said I have the face for it. The figure. He hired Kunal for the party. Kunal must have shortlisted these and uploaded them. I did not expect he would put the one with Azad Sahab also. But it is already gone. And you know how Azad Sahab is. Once he decides, he does not listen. He wants me to get bold like the other ladies he knows. He keeps saying I have huge potential. That if I keep myself well I can even get a small role in something. Bollywood type. Do you also think so, beta?” She gave a small laugh at the end, almost shy, almost testing.
I looked at the phone in her hand. The follower count had climbed again. “You are a very good-looking woman, Ma. That much is true. Anyone can see it. Whether… whether all of this is possible, I do not know. But the way the photos are posted—the blouse, his hand, everything open—it can become a problem. Relatives. Society people. Now the relationship is not only in the building. It is outside also.”
She set the phone on her lap. “It is already open in the building, Sunny. You heard them. Sunita said it on the stairs with a glass in her hand. People already talk. What is left to hide from them? And relatives—they do not call. They do not come. Papa’s side stopped after the first year. My side stopped earlier. So I do not have to explain anything to people who are not in this room. Society already knows. They saw the car. They saw the clothes. They saw the bite. Why should I pretend on a phone that none of it happened?”
She looked at the screen again and tilted it so the light caught the couple photograph. “Kunal has edited them well, though. The lighting is clean. The colours are not harsh. He knows how to make a photograph look expensive. That much I can say.”
The phone rang in her hand before I could answer. She glanced at the number, answered, and put it to her ear.
“Haan. Third floor. Yes, the AC. When are you coming?”
I heard a man’s voice, low and apologetic, through the small speaker. She listened. Her mouth tightened.
“Monday? Why Monday? You said today. Azad Sahab said today. If he comes up in the evening and the room is still hot, what am I supposed to tell him?”
The man spoke again. She cut across him once, then listened. Her free hand rubbed the place on her lower back.
“There is no other person? No. Fine. Monday morning, then. Early. Do not make it afternoon. Achha.”
She ended the call and set the phone down harder than she needed to. “He cannot come today. Some other fitting got delayed. Monday is the earliest. If Azad Sahab comes tonight and the fan is not enough, he will not be happy. I told him the room becomes too much after some time. That is why he sent it.”
She stood, then sat again almost at once. Her hand went to her forehead. “My head is starting. And the stomach is a little uneasy. The pill, I think. It happens with some women. I should lie down again for a while.”
She moved back to the bed and lay on her side facing the wall, the same position as before. The kameez settled. One hand rested on her stomach. “Azad sahab's maid is not coming today. He messaged in the morning. So instead of cooking here and then carrying everything downstairs, I will cook something there only. We can both go around six. Till then I will rest.”
I stayed on the edge of the bed. “You are sure you want to go down? After last night. The stairs. The people.”
She did not open her eyes. “I have to go sometime, beta. And Ammi is there. If I stay up here the whole day when maid is not there, it will look worse, not better. Azad Sahab will be back by evening. He will ask. Better I am already there when he comes. You do not have to stay long if you do not want. Eat and come up. But I will go.”
Her breathing slowed. The fan turned. Outside, the afternoon light on the grill had not changed much. I looked at the place where the kameez had slipped earlier, at the covered curve of her breast, at the bite still dark against the pillow, and did not move.
December 06, 2025
The fan kept turning above me. I had closed my eyes on the low wooden seat under the window, the wet patch in my jeans cooling slowly against my thigh, the phone still in my hand. Her snoring stayed even. Small, ordinary breaths that rose and fell with the soft band of waist the kameez had left bare. The AC boxes stood in the corner, brown and square, smelling of new cardboard. I told myself I would only rest a minute. The minute lengthened. The light from the grill stayed pale. Somewhere below, a scooter passed and was gone. The next thing I knew was the sound of the mattress giving under weight.
I opened my eyes.
She was sitting up on the far side of the bed, one hand braced on the sheet, the other pressed to her lower back. The kameez had ridden higher while she slept. A wider strip of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line where the saree had sat the night before. Her hair was flattened on one side. The bite on the left side of her neck looked darker in the low light, almost purple at the centre. She blinked at the grill, then at the room, then found me.
“Sunny?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “When did you come back, beta? How long… how long was I asleep?”
I sat up. The wooden seat creaked under me. “About an hour, Ma. Maybe a little more. I came around twelve. You were already down.”
She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand and looked at the wall clock. “Twelve. It is past one now. God. I did not mean to sleep so long.” She shifted and winced, the hand on her back pressing harder. “My back is still pulling. And these marks… they are burning. The wire sat too long last night. The skin is hot under the cloth.”
I stood. My jeans felt stiff where the wet had dried. “I brought both. I-pill and the Burnol. They are on the table.”
She looked at the folding table, saw the brown paper packet beside the grocery bag, and nodded once. “Bring me a glass of water, beta. I will take it now. Better before the hour goes.”
I went to the kitchen corner, filled a steel glass from the filter, and brought it back. She was already sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the tile, the kameez still high enough that the soft upper curve of her stomach caught the light. She took the glass with one hand and held the other out for the packet. I opened it, took out the green-and-white strip, and passed her one tablet. She placed it on her tongue, drank, and swallowed. The glass emptied halfway. She set it on the floor beside the bed and exhaled.
“There,” she said. “Done. Now the cream. These lines are not settling on their own.”
She reached for the small tube of Burnol, unscrewed the cap, and squeezed a pale line onto two fingers of her right hand. Then she set the tube down and, with her left hand, gathered the cream kameez and pulled it upward in one slow motion. The cloth climbed past her navel, past the soft plane of her stomach, and stopped just under the heavy underswell of her breasts. The green salwar stayed low on her hips. For a second the whole middle of her was bare to the room: the warm wheatish skin, the slight dip of the waist, the way the stomach stayed surprisingly flat even when she sat. The undersides of both breasts showed as soft, full curves where the kameez had bunched. No bra. Nothing between the cotton and the skin. The two red bands from the wire were clear under the left breast and again under the right—darker at the outer edges, almost raw where the underwire had pressed longest.
My cock thickened against the seam of the jeans again. I looked at the floor for a second, then back. She tried to reach under the left side with her cream-coated fingers. The angle was wrong. Her elbow caught the kameez. The marks were low, tucked under the weight of the breast. She shifted, tried again, and made a small sound of frustration.
“It is not reaching properly,” she said. “The left one is worse. I cannot see it from this side.”
I stayed where I was. The room felt smaller. “Ma… if you want, I can help. Only if you do not mind.”
She looked at me. Her hand was still holding the kameez up. The bite moved when she turned her head. “Why would I mind, beta? You are my son. It is only cream. Come. Sit here.”
I crossed the short distance and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to let my thigh press against hers. The mattress dipped. She smelled of the soap she had used in the morning, and under it the faint branded perfume that had not fully left her skin, and a warmer note of sleep-sweat that the fan had not taken. She guided my hand with her free one, turned the tube so I could take more cream, then lifted the kameez a fraction higher so I could see the line under the left breast.
“There,” she said. “Just under. Softly. The skin is already sore.”
I took cream on two fingers and brought them to the red band. The first touch was light. Her skin was warm. The mark itself felt slightly raised. I spread the cream in a slow line, following the curve where the wire had sat, from the outer edge inward. She exhaled through her nose. The underswell of the breast shifted with her breath, soft and heavy against the back of my fingers for a second before she adjusted. I kept the pressure even. My heart was loud in my ears. This was the first time my hand had been under the cloth like this, on bare skin that was not an arm or a shoulder. I thought of Azad’s hands the night before—on her open back, on the edge of the blouse, on the weight he had held while she said the word he wanted. I thought of how she had asked him to come inside, how the bed had hit the wall, how her voice had come through the wood. The same skin. The same weight. She had liked his hands. She had said so on the phone this morning. My fingers kept moving, slow, spreading the cream until the red line shone with it.
“The other side also,” she said, quieter. “It is the same.”
I shifted a little so I could reach under the right breast. She lifted the kameez higher with her left hand to give me room. The cloth slipped. For one clear second the full dark nipple of the right breast came free of the cotton—large, already tight from the cool air or from the touch, the areola wide and darker than the rest of her skin. She saw it at the same moment I did. Her hand came down fast, covering it, pulling the kameez back over the curve. Colour rose in her throat under the bite.
“Sorry,” she said. The word was small. “It slipped. I did not mean—”
“It is all right, Ma.” My voice came out thicker than I wanted. I was fully hard now, the jeans tight across the front. I kept my eyes on the cream and not on the place she had just covered. “I will finish this side.”
She nodded once. She did not lower the kameez all the way. She held it just high enough for me to work. I spread the remaining cream under the right breast, slower than before, feeling the heat of the mark and the softer skin around it. Her breathing had changed. Not deep. Just careful. When I finished she took the tube from my hand, capped it, and let the kameez fall. The cloth settled over her stomach and the start of her breasts. She straightened her back, winced again, then reached for me.
“Come here.”
I leaned in. She pulled me closer by the shoulder until my forehead was near hers. Her lips touched my forehead once, slow, the way she used to when I was smaller. The nighty-soft smell of her skin was right there. The bite was inches from my cheek.
“You are the best son,” she said against my hair. “I love you a lot, beta. More than anything. Thank you.”
I stayed still for a second. My hands were on my own thighs. “I love you too, Ma.”
She let me go. The ordinary distance came back between us, small as it was in the room. She stood, adjusted the kameez so it sat properly over the salwar, and walked to the charger near the bed. Her phone was still plugged in. She picked it up, unlocked it with the new code, and the screen lit her face. I watched from the edge of the bed. She scrolled. Her thumb stopped. The expression on her face changed—something between surprise and discomfort. She opened the post. I could see the four photographs from where I sat: the solo with the deep V, the three-quarter angle, the couple shot with Azad’s hand low on her waist, the group.
She looked at me once. Then again.
“Did you see it, beta?” she asked. “The photos. The post.”
“Yes,” I said. “I saw the notification while I was coming back. I was going to ask you about it.”
She sat on the chair near the almirah, phone still in her hand, and looked at the screen again. “Azad Sahab arranged it. A cameraman. Kunal. He also manages profiles. Azad Sahab has been telling me for weeks that I should have an Instagram. That I should put photos. Make it a hobby. These days good-looking women get huge following, and some of them even earn from it. He said I have the face for it. The figure. He hired Kunal for the party. Kunal must have shortlisted these and uploaded them. I did not expect he would put the one with Azad Sahab also. But it is already gone. And you know how Azad Sahab is. Once he decides, he does not listen. He wants me to get bold like the other ladies he knows. He keeps saying I have huge potential. That if I keep myself well I can even get a small role in something. Bollywood type. Do you also think so, beta?” She gave a small laugh at the end, almost shy, almost testing.
I looked at the phone in her hand. The follower count had climbed again. “You are a very good-looking woman, Ma. That much is true. Anyone can see it. Whether… whether all of this is possible, I do not know. But the way the photos are posted—the blouse, his hand, everything open—it can become a problem. Relatives. Society people. Now the relationship is not only in the building. It is outside also.”
She set the phone on her lap. “It is already open in the building, Sunny. You heard them. Sunita said it on the stairs with a glass in her hand. People already talk. What is left to hide from them? And relatives—they do not call. They do not come. Papa’s side stopped after the first year. My side stopped earlier. So I do not have to explain anything to people who are not in this room. Society already knows. They saw the car. They saw the clothes. They saw the bite. Why should I pretend on a phone that none of it happened?”
She looked at the screen again and tilted it so the light caught the couple photograph. “Kunal has edited them well, though. The lighting is clean. The colours are not harsh. He knows how to make a photograph look expensive. That much I can say.”
The phone rang in her hand before I could answer. She glanced at the number, answered, and put it to her ear.
“Haan. Third floor. Yes, the AC. When are you coming?”
I heard a man’s voice, low and apologetic, through the small speaker. She listened. Her mouth tightened.
“Monday? Why Monday? You said today. Azad Sahab said today. If he comes up in the evening and the room is still hot, what am I supposed to tell him?”
The man spoke again. She cut across him once, then listened. Her free hand rubbed the place on her lower back.
“There is no other person? No. Fine. Monday morning, then. Early. Do not make it afternoon. Achha.”
She ended the call and set the phone down harder than she needed to. “He cannot come today. Some other fitting got delayed. Monday is the earliest. If Azad Sahab comes tonight and the fan is not enough, he will not be happy. I told him the room becomes too much after some time. That is why he sent it.”
She stood, then sat again almost at once. Her hand went to her forehead. “My head is starting. And the stomach is a little uneasy. The pill, I think. It happens with some women. I should lie down again for a while.”
She moved back to the bed and lay on her side facing the wall, the same position as before. The kameez settled. One hand rested on her stomach. “Azad sahab's maid is not coming today. He messaged in the morning. So instead of cooking here and then carrying everything downstairs, I will cook something there only. We can both go around six. Till then I will rest.”
I stayed on the edge of the bed. “You are sure you want to go down? After last night. The stairs. The people.”
She did not open her eyes. “I have to go sometime, beta. And Ammi is there. If I stay up here the whole day when maid is not there, it will look worse, not better. Azad Sahab will be back by evening. He will ask. Better I am already there when he comes. You do not have to stay long if you do not want. Eat and come up. But I will go.”
Her breathing slowed. The fan turned. Outside, the afternoon light on the grill had not changed much. I looked at the place where the kameez had slipped earlier, at the covered curve of her breast, at the bite still dark against the pillow, and did not move.
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